Fly Away Home
by Seriana Ritani
Summary: Mystique has escaped from prison, disaster looms for the city of New Orleans, a dozen mysteries remain unsolved, and in the midst of it all Gambit and Rogue must struggle to reconcile their pasts with their lives in the X-Men and with one another.
1. Chapter 1

Fly Away Home

An X-Men: Evolution Fan Fiction by Seriana Ritani

Summary: Mystique has escaped from prison, disaster looms for the city of New Orleans, a dozen mysteries remain unsolved, and in the midst of it all Gambit and Rogue must struggle to reconcile their pasts with their lives in the X-Men and with one another. Conclusion of the _Flight_ Trilogy.

Rating: T+

* * *

Chapter 1

* * *

"I think he's dead, Remy."

Remy heard these words, understood them. He knew what death meant. But somehow it didn't quite register. _Dead _was a made-up, nonsense word, something that people said but that didn't really mean anything, a fantasy, a joke, something that happened in the movies—anything but here, and now, and real.

"Remy? Did y'hear me? You okay?"

"I just touched him," said Remy, with the vague idea that explaining this would correct the problem. "Just for a second."

"It's been fifteen minutes," said another voice, out of breath from exertion. "We lost him. He's gone."

_He's gone_. For as long as Remy had been a part of these gray-green bayous, there had been Julian, his friend Bella's stupid older brother, an annoyance and a pain but as much a son of New Orleans as Remy himself. He'd never known New Orleans without Julian. Nobody had. The warm, muggy air tasted different inside Remy's mouth, tainted with an unfamiliar bitterness. This beautiful, shadowy, gray-green place, the cool mirror-smooth water, the solemn enveloping trees whose branches brushed the back of his head as the boat maneuvered through them . . . it wasn't his home anymore. Something in his gut told him so.

"We gotta tell de guildmaster," said someone else, speaking softly out of respect for the dead and fear of Marius Boudreaux.

The guildmaster. Both guildmasters were back at the house, celebrating the alliance of their two mighty organizations by making polite, subtle jabs at one another's characters. They'd been doing it for hours. Marius and Jean-Luc, the guildmasters. Robert and Julian, _les dauphins_. Remy and Belladonna, _les alliés. _There had been a harmony, a balance, to that pattern.

_Julian Boudreaux is dead at the hand of Remy LeBeau._

Remy steadied himself against the gunwale of the boat and leaned toward Julian's body, half-believing he'd feel breath if he just waited long enough with his hand over his rival's face. Bobby grabbed him and pulled him back, a wrist in each hand. Unthinkingly, reflexively, Remy fought back, trying to wrest himself free. He couldn't fight against fate, couldn't fight against death, couldn't fight Julian Boudreaux whose drunken anger had just destroyed Remy's life as thoroughly as Remy had just destroyed his. But Bobby was something he could fight, something he could hit.

_My life is over. Let go'a me. Let go._

"Snap out of it, Remy. Come on. We need you t'focus now."

"Let go'a me."

"Come on, Remy, wake up. Wake up. It's okay."

He'd had no idea Bobby was so strong. The grip felt more like shackles than human hands, their hold inexorable.

"_Gambit!_"

Reality hit him like a brick to the head. The bayou, the boat, the body, his brother, all disappeared as though they had never been. He was in his own bed in his own bedroom in, of all bizarre places, a private school for mutants in New York, and Rogue had him by the wrists.

As soon as he remembered where his lungs were, he inhaled, sucking in a deep breath of the cold, faintly woodsmoke-scented air. It cleared his head almost immediately. There was no way he could be breathing air like that if he were in Louisiana.

Rogue started breathing again, too. She was floating over his bed, in pajamas and long gloves, her hands carefully holding Remy's away from both of them. "Jeez, Remy! You scared me to death!" She released him and pulled away, watching him with concern. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." Remy pushed himself up against the headboard, moving his legs so Rogue could land on the foot of his bed. He wiped the sheen of cold sweat off his face and shivered. "You come in t'rough de window again?"

"Ah closed it," Rogue insisted defensively. "Though Ah thought Ah'd have tuh dump yeh into the snow to wake you up this time."

Remy shivered again, this time in horror. "I don'do snow."

"Ah know. You been sayin' that since November." Rogue brought her knees up in front of her and rested her chin on them, wrapping her arms around her shins. "Same old, same old?" she asked gently.

"Yeah." He would never have admitted the events of his dream to anyone else, but Rogue was different. She'd known for a long time what he'd done to Julian, and had never held it against him. Well, never but once. But that was forgiven now. Nor did she hold him in contempt for the nightmares. She, too, knew about feeling death in her own hands.

"Y'know, the Professor might be able to make 'em stop," she offered. "If it gets to be too much. He can put up blocks around your memories."

"What, like he done t'you?" asked Gambit dryly.

"Yeah. It's weird, but yeh sleep better."

Gambit chuckled and scrutinized her, looking for some hint of self-deception. "It still freaks me out dat dat don't freak you out. Y'know dey's somethin' in y'head y'can't remember, an'y'just leave it lie."

"The Professor says it's okay."

"An y'trust him dat much?"

"If we couldn't trust the Professor, we'd probably all be dead. Psychic that powerful? He could kill us all before we knew what was happenin'."

"Yeah," Gambit grumbled. "I hate psychics."

Rogue snickered. "Y'ain't _still_ mad at Jean, are yeh?"

"Stuck up Yankee _je-sais-tout_."

The snicker became an all-out giggle. "It was just a stupid turkey!"

"_Non_, it was a disaster."

"You're such a freak."

"You been livin' up north too long. Forgot what good food tastes like. Up here dey don't know a turkey from a microwave burrito."

"No, they don't. But you could have said something to her before you decided to go all crazy with the spices."

"Anybody wid' any sense woulda'been thankin' me."

"Oh, is that why she hasn't said a civil word to you since Christmas? Because she ain't got no sense? I was wonderin'." Rogue shook her head, her streaks dancing back and forth across 

her face. "I wish somebody'd got that on tape. Last time anybody saw Jean that mad, she was breaking up with Duncan."

Remy snagged his coat from its usual spot on the bedpost by his head and tossed it to Rogue. "Wrap up. Y'make me cold just lookin' at you."

Though he knew she wasn't cold . . . it would take more than February in New York to sink through her impermeable skin . . . Rogue obediently wrapped the coat around herself like a blanket and flipped up the collar. "That better?"

"_Ouais._" Gambit leaned his head back against the board, trying to convince himself that he was warm, and safe, and that his dream was just a dream. "I need t'get a space heater or somet'in' in here or I ain't gettin' a good night's sleep until April."

"You think you're havin' more nightmares because it's cold?"

"Mebbe. Dey been gettin' worse wid de weather."

"It'll start warmin' up soon. Ah remember hatin' mah first winter in New York. Ah kept crankin' the heat up in our room, and Kitty kept crankin' it down. We were ready tuh kill each other by spring."

Gambit chuckled.

"You sure you don't wanna talk to the Professor? Ah know he might not be able to do anything, what with your powers, but he could at least try."

Gambit shook his head. "_Non, chère._ I couldn't."

"Why not?"

He smiled and reached across the blanket to take her gloved hand, which she silently surrendered to him. "An' s'posin' I let him poke around inside my head, see what I been watchin' in my nightmares. How long d'you t'ink he'd let me stay? Dey's little kids in dis house . . . Jamie, Bobby, Amara. He gonna let dem be in de same household wid me, after what I done? I don'wanna risk what I got here. It's _all_ I got."

Rogue's fingers closed around his, squeezing back. "He wouldn't throw you out. He knows about Mystique and the cliff . . . and how much Ah hurt Kurt . . . and he never even blinked. Just started talking me through it."

"Difference is, if anybody deserved t'get her butt pushed off a cliff, it's Mystique, an'de Professor knows it." Remy turned away, unable to look her in the face while he spoke. "Was different wid Julian."

"Ah know you're s'posed tuh respect the dead, but I had Julian in mah brain, and Ah can't say I'm all that broken up about never seein' him again."

"Yeah, he was plenty stupid an' plenty mean. But that don't make what I done any better."

"Maybe not. Not our call, Ah guess. Things that happened happened. Ah don't think the Professor'd think any less of you if he knew about Julian, but that's your business and not mine."

"_Merci._" He looked up at her again. "Sorry I keep wakin' y'up."

"S'okay." Rogue rearranged herself so she didn't have to sit up anymore, draping herself across his legs, stomach-down, and tucking her arms underneath her chest. "Ah was havin' a dumb dream anyway."

Remy squirmed into a more comfortable position; Rogue lifted herself up to let him move, then settled down again. "What about?"

"This kid I knew in junior high . . . his name was Andy, Andy Cleveland . . . had plane tickets to Morocco and wanted me t'go with him because he had to solve a mystery. Somethin' about the crown jewels being stolen. Then he got kidnapped an' Ah got on the wrong plane an' ended up in Hong Kong."

"You know what Hong Kong looks like?"

"Not really. Looked kinda like Disneyland. At least, Ah thought it did. Never been there, either."

"You're right. Weird dream."

"Don't make a very good story, either. Ah'll try t'have a more interesting dream t'morrow." She yawned, and her eyes sagged towards shutting.

Remy pulled one of the pillows out from behind his head and passed it to her. "You should go back to y'own room," he told her, but there was no enthusiasm in his voice, and he was tucking his coat around her as he spoke.

"Will in a minute," Rogue mumbled. "You warmed up yet?"

"Not quite. You gonna stay 'till I am?"

"Well, if Ah get up now, you'll be all cold again and won't be able tuh sleep."

"So you're stayin' 'till I'm asleep."

"You mind?"

"Not at all. But I think you might fall asleep 'fore I do."

"Yeah, right," Rogue sighed.

Remy grinned, knowing that she was already three-quarters gone. If Logan found her here in the morning, he'd be annoyed with them both all day. Since Logan was in charge of morning workouts, having him annoyed was no meager threat, but right now Remy couldn't bring himself to care very much. The warmth of Rogue's body radiated through his blankets into his legs, stopping the shivering that had been building in his muscles since he woke up. He would have no more nightmares as long as she stayed there; he never did. It was calming and comforting to have her with him, part best friend and part hot water bottle.

He closed his eyes and relaxed, trying to settle back into the sleep he knew he needed. It didn't come at once. Something was bothering him, like an unresolved problem nagging at the back of his mind. He wanted to touch her.

To just lay his fingertips against her cheek, and feel her smile against them before he drifted off again . . . that would be perfect. He knew he couldn't, but that didn't make him want it any less.

He sighed, smiling wryly at himself. "Rogue?"

"Mm?"

"You awake?"

"Yeah . . ."

"Anyone ever tell you you're a pretty girl?"

She moaned and snuggled her face deeper into the pillow. "Forgot tuh mention it."

"Been meanin' t'tell you."

"Thanks for the info."

"Life'd be a whole lot easier 'round here if you was just a little uglier," he joked, reaching down to pull a lock of her hair the way he liked to do when he was teasing her.

She pulled her head away, smiling without opening her eyes. "Ah could stop showerin', if that'd make your life easier."

"_Deg_."

Rogue giggled.

Remy waited until she was still again, then reached down and brushed his thumbnail across her bottom lip. He saw her twitch a little, either wincing away or smiling, but she kept still, knowing how risky a sudden movement could be with his hand so close. She let her lips part the tiniest fraction of an inch to breathe one word. "Careful."

"I'm careful," he assured her, brushing the corner of her mouth and proceeding across her upper lip, following the ridge of it. "Jus'wanted t'feel de shape." He withdrew his hand. "Sorry."

She dragged her eyes open, looking up reluctantly into his face. "You want me tuh leave?" she asked gently, pushing against the mattress to lift herself up.

"_Non,_" he insisted. "Stay. I promise I'll be good." He folded his arms across his chest, tucking his hands securely into the bends of his elbows. "Just a little while longer. 'Till it warms up in here."

"Okay." She sighed and settled back down. Remy closed his eyes.

* * *

"Kitty! Rogue! Come on, guys, time to get up."

Kitty groaned and rolled over, tumbling out of bed and onto the floor, where she landed with has loud a _thump_ as her petite frame would produce. "I'm up." She rolled again, this time phased out so she could escape her blankets, and sat up.

"Rogue?" Jean called from the hallway.

Kitty blinked a few times and made her eyes focus on Rogue's bed. It was empty.

"Oh, man," she groaned. "She's sleeping with Gambit again."

She heard Jean sigh. "Better go get her or Logan's going to be a nightmare."

"I'm on it." Kitty phased through the door and set off down the hallway, her bare feet making almost no noise on the carpeted floor as she left the girls' wing and headed down the boys'. Gambit's room was the last in the row, where Evan had once slept. Kitty tapped anxiously on the door, then stuck her head through it.

Gambit was sprawled across his bed, one hand behind his head and the other lying on the blanket. Rogue was curled up, half on her stomach and half on her side, lying across his legs with Gambit's coat over her. Both of them were sound asleep.

Kitty hesitated. She knew Logan would be upstairs in a few minutes, to bully any late-risers out of their beds, and he would be in a seriously bad mood if he caught Rogue in here. But they were _so _cute.

She slipped the rest of the way through the door and crossed the room to poke Rogue in the leg. "Rogue?"

Rogue moaned and stretched. "Huh?"

"Come on, get up."

Gambit dragged his eyes open, blinked, and grinned. "Mornin', _Minou_."

"Morning," said Kitty, smiling at how utterly unembarrassed he was to be caught with Rogue asleep on his bed. "Sleep well?"

"Like a baby."

"Well, you're going to be sleeping on your stomach for the rest of the week if Logan kicks your butt for letting Rogue in here again."

"He ever tried keepin' dis girl out of a room she wanted t'be in?"

Rogue lifted herself up, leaving the coat in a pile on top of the blanket. "C'mon, Kitty. We can take the back way."

"_You_ take the back way. It's freezing out there. I'll take my chances in the hall."

Gambit grumbled and rolled over, pulling the blankets over his head. "If y'openin' de window, I'm stayin in here 'till it's shut again."

"Don't fall back asleep," Rogue warned him, pulling open the wide double windows.

"Won't."

He promptly did, but only for a couple of minutes. It was hard to sleep through Logan.

"Get your butt out of bed, Cajun!"

Gambit sat up, groaning. "It's out; I'm comin'."

He swung out of bed and got dressed, hurrying into uniform, boots, faceguard, coat and gloves before the chill from the opened-and-closed window could settle onto him. It was _so cold_ in New York.

At least, he observed as he emerged into the hallway, he wasn't the only one having problems with the weather. Scott, who'd been first one downstairs every morning during the autumn, wasn't even out of his room yet. He blamed his tiredness on the reduced sunlight, which his body absorbed like a solar cell to power his eye beams. While this was a perfectly sensible 

explanation, Gambit hadn't stopped giving him grief since the first time he'd beaten his field commander to morning training. Roberto, also a solar-charger, was having similar problems.

Then there was Bobby.

"Morning!" he hollered cheerfully, shooting past Gambit on an ice slide that ran the length of the hallway and swerved down the stairs. Icicles formed along the crown molding as he passed.

Gambit turned up his collar and tucked his hands into his armpits.

"I really hate that kid," grumbled Amara, emerging from the girls' wing. "Maybe spring will kill him."

"We kin hope," Gambit grumbled. "How long we got 'till spring, anyway?"

"Too long."

Gambit detoured to the kitchen, where he knew there was a calendar tacked to the wall. He'd intended to count the days left until the first day of spring, but he never got around to that. Because tomorrow's square had a line of lettering running along the bottom: _Ash Wednesday_.

"See dat?" he asked Amara, who'd stumbled in behind him. "Today's _le Mardi Gras_."

"Huh," said Amara. "Happy Mardi Gras."

"Are you guys coming, or what?" demanded Roberto. "I want to get this over with."

"Hold your horses. We're coming." Amara snarled.

* * *

French Lesson For the Day:

_les dauphins: _the crown princes.

_les alliés_: the allies.

_je-sais-tout :_I-know-everything; know-it-all.

_deg: _gross.

_Minou:_ Kitty.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Chapter 2

* * *

A note appeared on Gambit's desk in the middle of English class. At the top of a sheet of notebook paper, Rogue had scribbled _What's wrong? You're in a funk._

Gambit clicked some of the lead out of his pencil and scribbled back. _Today's Mardi Gras._ With all the grace of a lifetime of practice, he passed the note back to her without attracting anyone's notice.

_So? Happy Mardi Gras. :-)_

_I forgot, though. How could I forget Mardi Gras? All the schools are closed down in N.O. today for the parades. It's a bigger deal than Christmas._

_I remember. It was kinda the same way in Mississippi. And last Mardi Gras was fun. At least, until stuff started exploding._

_That's the best part, chère._

_:-P_

_;-)_

_So it's a homesick kinda day, huh? I'm sorry._

_I'll get through it._

"Rogue."

Rogue sat bolt upright, crushing the note into a ball in her fist, and met the eyes of her rather annoyed English teacher.

"I wondered if you'd care to share your insights on the ending of the novel," said Ms. Welker, leaning back against her desk with a raised eyebrow. "What did you learn from it?"

Gambit could almost see Rogue's head twitch as her brain switched gears. "Was Ah supposed t'learn somethin' from it?"

Snickers around the room.

"That is why we read it," offered Ms. Welker.

"But what kinda useful information are we supposed t'get out of this?" demanded Rogue, gesturing contemptuously with the paperback volume that had been sitting on her desk. "I wouldn't cross the street to meet this Janie person. Ah mean, she spends the whole book runnin' 

away with one man after another, and none of 'em are any good, and then what? She just goes home? She never does a thing for herself this whole book. And Tea Cake's s'posed t'be this great romantic guy, but he beats her! He _beats _her! And she's okay with that! So why are we wastin' our time talkin' about some stupid woman who didn't finish this book any smarter than she was when she started it? She didn't learn anything, so why should Ah?"

Silence reigned in the classroom for a long second. Gambit bit the insides of his cheeks to keep himself from smiling. He loved Rogue's tirades on literature. He'd thought that there couldn't be anything funnier than hearing her rant on the entire cast of _Crime and Punishment_, but that had been before she'd been dragged through _Heart of Darkness_ and _Their Eyes Were Watching God_. He couldn't wait for _The Grapes of Wrath._

When Ms. Welker spoke again, Gambit could see that she was fighting a smile, too. "Rogue, I think you've just found your topic for your final paper. Janie as an antifeminist figure. By the way, I hope you're all thinking about that paper. The end of term is a lot closer than you think it is, and I need a topic statement from every person in this class two weeks from today. Any questions?"

There were a few, which took up the time until the bell rang. As Gambit was shrugging back into his coat, he heard the teacher send Rogue one last parting jab. "Next time you pass notes, Rogue, you'd better be just as quick on your feet with an answer or you're winding up in detention. Got it?"

"Got it, ma'am."

"Looking forward to reading your paper."

"Not as much as I'm lookin' forward t'watchin her write it," Gambit quipped. Rogue smacked him across the shoulder.

"So you feelin' better now that you got tuh watch Ms. Welker bite my head off?" Rogue asked as they plunged into the seething mass of humanity fighting through the hallway.

"Little bit, yeah."

"Well, so glad Ah could brighten your day."

"Much appreciated."

* * *

_"J'ai passé devant ta porte, j'ai crié bye-bye, ma belle, y'a personne qui m'a repondu, oh yé yaille, mon coeur fait mal . . ._"

Gambit and Rogue had dish duty. Actually, it was just Gambit, but Rogue always helped him and he did the same for her. It was an excuse for him to pack yet more Cajun songs into her head. After almost six months of French class, Rogue still had a very limited vocabulary and could only conjugate three tenses, but she could now fill a decent-sized book with all the songs she knew.

"So the girl's dead, right?"

"Yeah."

"So it's a depressing song."

"_Ouais_."

"Y'all got any songs that ain't depressing?"

Gambit paused and thought about it. "I'm sure I'll think'a one. Pass dat fryin' pan. I t'ink I can fit it in along de side here."

Rogue passed the frying pan. Gambit made it fit in the lower rack of the dishwasher, added soap, and closed the door. "_Finis_."

"Done," Rogue translated.

"_Bien_," said Gambit, grinning. He grabbed the dish towel that hung on the handle of the oven door and wiped the water off his hands. "Comin' atcha," he called, flipping the towel behind his back so it went arcing over Rogue's head. She leapt into the air and grabbed for it, but it slipped through her fingers and landed in a heap on the floor.

Rogue flipped herself over and dove to the floor, as though she were reaching for a diving ring in a swimming pool, and picked up the towel. She was waiting for some crack about her clumsiness, but none came. She flipped back onto her feet, drying her hands as she spun.

Gambit was staring at the towel with a strange, faraway look on his face.

"What?" Rogue asked. "Gambit, you okay?"

He gave himself a little shake and came back to earth. "Yeah. Jus' . . . old bayou superstition is all."

"What's that?"

"Drop a dish towel, y'got company comin'."

Rogue looked at the towel, then back up at Gambit. "Y'all got superstitions about dish towels?"

"Yeah. Old silliness."

"Does it matter what kinda dish towel? Like a white one with blue stripes means it's gonna be a guy with a mohawk?"

"Not dat I ever heard. But de woman who taught me dat couldn'be surprised. Didn'matter what hour of de day or night y'showed up, she knew it."

"'Cause of dish towels."

"Who knows?" He shrugged, took the towel from her, and hung it back on the oven door. "Life's a strange ol'mess sometimes." He checked his wristwatch, then grabbed the phone from its cradle. "Still early. _Bon._ Go hurry up an' get changed."

"Changed into what?"

But Gambit was already out of the kitchen, striding across the hall to the living room where the rest of the household was dealing with homework.

"Kurt, call Amanda," he ordered, tossing Kurt the phone.

Kurt stared perplexedly at the phone, then at Gambit. "How come?"

"'Cause we goin' out t'night."

"Hey, man, you vant to go out with Amanda, you call her yourself."

"All of us. You, me, Kitty, Amanda, an' Rogue. I ain't stayin' inside doin' homework on _Mardi Gras_. Scott, borrow y'car?"

Scott didn't look up from his calculus book. "Pay for the gas you use, mind the paint, and if the police get involved, I'll tell them you stole it."

"Fair 'nough."

"Keys are hanging up by the door."

"Can we come?" asked Bobby.

"Y'eighteen?"

"No . . ."

"_Non_."

"Gambit," Kitty protested, scrambling to her feet to follow him out the door. "I'm not eighteen yet, either."

"Really?" asked Gambit, without interest. "Hurry an' get changed. We leavin' in ten."

* * *

"What is this place?" Rogue demanded as Gambit brought Scott's car to a stop in a parking place of questionable legality in downtown Manhattan.

"Next best t'ing t'N'Awlins dis side a'de Mason-Dixon," Gambit announced. He climbed out of the car and shoved his seat forward to let Kitty, Kurt, and Amanda out of the back.

They were parked across from a night club whose lights blazed like gaudy jewels in the February darkness. From inside, Rogue could hear a jumble of voices and laughter threatening to overwhelm the sound of a fiddle and an accordion. The name "Cajun" was emblazoned above the sunken door in cursive swirls of red neon.

The place was packed, and Rogue was immeasurably glad she'd decided to wear a cream long-sleeve under the less covering dark green top she'd picked out. In the dim light, the undershirt was almost indistinguishable from her pale skin, but she could maneuver through the crowd without worrying about hurting anyone.

"Wow," observed Kurt, taking in the long, dim room, the crowd of laughing people, the omnipresent strings of brightly-colored beads, the fantastic costumes, and the heady, jubilant energy of the unfamiliar music the band was playing. "You really know how to find a party. This is whack!"

"Yeah, Gambit," Amanda agreed. "This is amazing! Look at this place!"

Kitty came hurrying after them—she'd had to slip through the wall to avoid having her id checked at the door. "_So_ cool," she agreed. "If anybody needs me, I'll be dancing."

"Come on, Kurt," Amanda ordered, pulling on his arm. "Come dance with me. And switch off that silly image inducer."

"Are you nuts?" Kurt demanded, wrapping his right hand protectively around the projector.

"Nobody's gonna notice! It's like Halloween in here! There's even a guy with three heads over by the bar." She grabbed his wrist and hit the 'off' button on his watch. The image of a skinny teenager in baggy pants fizzled away, leaving Kurt, blue, fuzzy, demonic, and very shy, standing exposed in the middle of the room. No one paid much attention.

"Go on; have fun," Gambit ordered him. "Just don'get too fancy. Stay off de ceilin'." He slipped an arm around Rogue's waist and pulled her gently against his side, content to let Kurt, Amanda, and Kitty wander off as long as she stayed to keep him company. Fearless Amanda dragged Kurt off to the dance floor, leaving the two southerners to themselves.

Remy looked down at Rogue and smiled. "Lemme buy you a drink?"

Rogue grinned. "Well, if y'insist."

They maneuvered over to the bar, where Rogue ordered a sweet tea (a southern indulgence she hadn't enjoyed since leaving Mississippi) and Gambit, after a glare and a reminder that he was driving, had Coke. They sipped their drinks in companionable silence for a while, Rogue swilling the ice in her glass to hear it chime.

"Three years ago, I stole a motorcycle," Gambit announced at length, his bright red eyes wandering back and forth across the room.

"Ah'm shocked. Ah might even faint."

"I got on de freeway an' just drove. I had a pack a' cards, a case a lockpicks, an' twelve dollars seventeen cents. But I had t'get outta New Orleans. I was sick'a de feuds, sick'a de humidity, an' most of all sick'a my father jerkin' me around 'cause I was savin' him a fortune in explosives. So I just drove away. Didn'care where, s'long as I never had t'come back. Funny how we stupid when we young."

"We're still pretty young."

"Don'much feel like it sometimes. Y'wake up some mornin's, and evert'ing y'used t'know is far, far away." He tossed down another swig of the Coke. "But not tonight. Tonight we young again. It's _Mardi Gras_. Everybody's welcome. Everybody's home. You kin smell it . . . all spices an' tobaccuh an heat an' bourbon. Just for t'night, I never left." He finished the Coke and set the glass on the bar with determined finality. "So c'mon. Finish dat an' come dance wid me."

Rogue tried to chug the last of the tea and choked on it, which was so funny that she laughed before her airway was clear and ended up choking more. Gambit hit her on the back, laughing. She set the glass down and permitted herself to be dragged toward the band. "Ah can't dance!" she protested, still laughing at the absurdity of it all.

Gambit ignored her, setting one of her hands on his shoulder and taking hold of the other. "You trust me?" he asked, settling his free hand on the curve of her waist. His blazing, dangerous eyes gazed down into hers, full of secrets and laughter.

Rogue smiled, feeling her heart pick up speed inside her chest. "You remember the first time we met?" she asked. "When you was workin' for Magneto?"

"Hard t'forget." He cocked his head sideways, a smile teasing across his face.

"You looked just exactly like that." She freed her hand and pointed to his face. "Same look."

His smile grew wider as he caught her hand again and settled it back into his. "I was t'inkin' den dat it was a cryin' shame Xavier was recruitin' all de pretty girls." He brought their joined hands up to her face and brushed the back of hers across her cheek, temple to jaw, never moving his gaze from hers.

Rogue wondered if she was still breathing. When he looked at her like that, it became very hard to think.

"You trust me?" he asked again.

Rogue nodded. There was nothing else she could have done.

"Den don't look away. Hang on tight t'me."

She felt her fingers grip more firmly on the shoulder of his coat. She couldn't have looked away from him if she'd tried.

And before she quite knew what had happened, she was dancing.

It was like flying, in a way: the same sudden thrill of freedom, banishing the sense of entrapment that haunted her every day. But it was different, too, shared in a way that flying could never quite be. Telepathy, she thought, had to be like this: knowing things about someone without knowing how you knew them. Remy was telling her how to move with subtle pressures of his hands and movements of his body, and without thinking about it she obeyed, never a step out of place.

_He's right. Mardi Gras is magic._

They spun to a stop only as the music ended, and even then the room did a couple more turns around Rogue's head before it settled back down. There was a cheerful, chattering sound all around her, and after a few seconds of effort she identified it as applause. Remembering her manners, she let go of Remy and applauded, too, showing her appreciation for the band.

They'd ended up at the foot of the stage. Gambit was laughing at her. "Can y'dance now?"

"Ah don't think Ah can even stand up," Rogue answered, breathless. Remy caught her by the elbow to help her keep her balance.

"You always did have dat affect on women, Remy LeBeau."

Rogue and Gambit both looked up. The violinist, a broad-shouldered man with the scruffy beginnings of a beard all over his jaw, was smirking down at the pair of them.

Gambit's face lit up with delight. "Dieudonné Allain! _Mais qu'est ce que c'est?_"

"_Eh bien, _Remy_, mon gar! On ne t'a pas vu depuis longtemps! Que fais-tu a _New York? _Bien, laisse tomber, je peut la voir. __Pas mal, pas mal du tout."_ The violinist jumped down from the stage, grinning.

Gambit laughed. "Rogue, dis is Don Allain, from Lafayette. Friend of a friend of a friend _depuis longtemps_ . . . since fo'ever. Donné, dis here's Rogue. _Elle est à moi_."

"Mam'selle." Don took Rogue's hand and bowed over it, almost but not quite touching his lips to her knuckles.

"Nice t'meet yeh," said Rogue, who had never had her hand bowed over before and had no idea of what else she aught to say.

Don's smile, if possible, got wider. "She's southern! If dat don'beat all. Only Remy LeBeau could find himself a pretty southern girl in New York City."

Her blush, which had been bad before, got worse. Remy laughed and wrapped his arm around her waist, supporting, comforting, and claiming her.

"So what're you doin' all de way up here?" he asked, unable to stop smiling any more than Rogue was able to stop blushing. "Last I heard, you were pretty swamped playin' weddin's all over de island."

"Eh, de group's been goin' big dese days. Two CDs already."

"_C'est pas vrai_."

" _Mais si._ And playin' de Cajun on _Mardi Gras_ ain't somethin' y'turn down. We been tourin' up here de last couple months, but we flyin' home t'morrow. How 'bout you, dough? Time was y'couldn't round a corner in _la ville_ wit'out one of de LeBeau boys gittin' after y'wallet just for kicks."

"'Time was' was a long time ago, _mon ami_. I'm goin' straight dese days."

"_Mais non. _You? Remy LeBeau a'de N'Awlins LeBeaus?"

Gambit nodded. "School an' everyt'ing."

"You're kiddin'."

"I ain't. Rogue's family done took me in an' settled me down. Well, mostly. Still smugglin' seventeen-year-olds int'clubs t'hear some good Cajun music."

"She's seventeen? F'shame, Remy."

"Not dis'un. De brunette in de ponytail. _Tu vois_? De one up t'her ears in beads?"

Rogue twisted around to look. Kitty, taking advantage of the pause in the music to chatter animatedly to the good-looking boy she'd been dancing with, had at least ten strings of Mardi Gras beads around her neck. Rogue groaned. Don and Gambit laughed.

"Well, _chaque pied trouve son numero de souleir_, like Memere said. Never thought I'd see de likes a'you turnin' respectable, but if it suits yeh, I'm glad."

"_Merci_, Don. An'y'have a good flight back t'morrow. Say hello t'_la ville_ fo'me, will yeh?"

"I sure will do dat. An'I'll tell y'family I saw yeh, if I happen across 'em."

Gambit's grin finally faded. "If y'happen across Bobby, I'd thank y'for it, but bringin' up my name wid Jean-Luc ain't gonna get y'invited t'stay for dinner. Dey's some bad blood dere."

"Well, I'm sure sorry t'hear dat. Here's hopin' it blows over real soon."

"Much appreciated."

Don glanced up at the stage behind him. "Gotta get back. Anyt'in' y'wouldn't mind hearin'? _Joli Blon_, mebbe?"

Gambit grimaced. "_Non, _not dat one. How 'bout _Devant ta Porte_?"

"Done." Don swung back up onto the stage, conferred for a moment with the other members of his band, then struck up the same song Gambit had been singing over the dishes earlier in the evening.

"Wow," Rogue observed. "You were right about that dish towel."

Gambit shook his head. "Was you who dropped it." He glanced over her head at Kitty. "Somebody should 'splain t'her about dem beads."

Rogue winced at the thought. "She's just gonna die."

"Y'right. Mebbe we better wait 'till we kin find a camera. Don'wanna miss de look on her face."

"You're so mean."

"_Ouais_. I'll be sorry in de mornin'."

"You bet you will."

* * *

Author's Notes:

Rogue and Gambit's English curriculum is made up of every book I had to read in high school that I truly and passionately hated. Her feelings on _Their Eyes Were Watching God_ are my own.

_Bien_: Well done.

The first verse of _Devant ta Porte_ translates to: 'I passed by your door, I cried 'Good-bye, my love,' but no one answered, oh how my heart hurts.' It sounds better in French. It's also a lot of fun to dance to.

_Bon:_ Good.

The Cajun was a Manhattan night club and restaurant that was known for its live musical performances by some of the best jazz and Cajun musicians in the country. It has been closed for many years now. Sad day. :-(

_Mais qu'est ce que c'est?_ What the heck ?

"_Eh bien, _Remy_, mon gar! On ne t'a pas vu depuis longtemps! Que fais-tu a _New York? _Bien, laisse tomber, je peut la voir. Pas mal, pas mal du tout."_ Becomes as follows: "Hey, Remy, man! Haven't seen you in forever ! What are you doing in New York ? Well, never mind, I can see her. Not bad, not bad at all."

_Elle est à moi_: She is mine; she is of me; she belongs to me.

_C'est pas vrai_: It's not true; no way.

_Mais si_: But yes, it is true.

_La ville_: literally 'the city.' In southern Louisiana it refers specifically to New Orleans.

_Mon ami_: my friend.

_Mais non_: see 'C'est pas vrai.'

_Tu vois?: _You see?

_Chaque pied trouve son numero de souleir : _Every foot finds its shoe size. A Cajun aphorism meaning 'everyone finds his place in the world.'

_Merci: _Thank you.

_Joli Blon_: We'll be coming back to this one. Just tuck it in the back of your brain for right now.

Oh, and Mardi Gras beads are traditionally showered upon women who flash the crowd during the madness that is _Mardi Gras _in the French Quarter.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Chapter 3

* * *

Despite returning home at what Gambit considered an unreasonably early hour, all four X-Men were so tired they could hardly see straight during morning training. Logan seemed to decide that this was entirely Gambit's fault and expressed his displeasure with extra laps. Gambit tolerated this with good humor. He and Logan understood one another remarkably well: Logan understood that Gambit would sooner have skipped Christmas than Mardi Gras, and Gambit understood that Logan had to make an example of him or Bobby Drake would be sneaking the younger students to Manhattan every other weekend. So Gambit was punished, justice was satisfied, and Bobby and Amara got to drive because Kitty and Kurt didn't trust themselves behind the wheel of the X-Van and Jean's SUV.

Amanda was similarly zombified, but was nonetheless in a great mood and declared that she wouldn't have missed that party even if it had meant skipping sleep for a week. This was in spite of being grounded for a month for sneaking out with the parentally-forbidden Kurt. Gambit spent the lunch break giving her tips on how not to get caught next time she needed to sneak out. Rogue spent the lunch break drinking massive amounts of Coke to keep her brain in working order.

She and Kurt were together for European History, the last class of the day on Wednesdays. When the final bell rang, he accompanied her to her locker, she accompanied him to his, and with their backpacks bulging with schoolwork they headed to the parking lot where the team assembled after school.

Kurt tossed his backpack into the van, but didn't climb in after it. Rogue, halfway through the passenger door, paused. "Ain't'cha comin' home, Kurt?"

"I've got some things to do in town," explained Kurt. He couldn't blush through his image inducer, but he was looking at his shoes and scuffing the toe of one very awkwardly against the pavement. "I'm gonna get home on my own."

"Scott's gonna be mad if yeh miss training."

"He already knows. Ze Professor said it vas okay."

Kitty, in the driver's seat, leaned over to hear the conversation better. "What're you doing?"

"Nothing much."

"C'mon, Kurt!"

"I . . ." He swallowed, and seemed to be considering just vanishing from the parking lot to avoid finishing the conversation. "I'm going to Mass," he finally muttered. "It's Ash Wednesday. It's important."

Rogue stared at him. She'd always had the vague impression that Kurt was, well, religious . . . or at any rate, the vague impression that he went missing every Sunday morning . . . but she'd never really thought about it very much. His manifest embarrassment at such a simple thing made a twist of guilt form in her stomach. He was her brother, and she'd never even bothered to ask.

"Oh." Kitty leaned back into her seat and fastened her seatbelt. "Okay, then. See you at dinner."

"Thanks." Kurt stepped away from the van and headed across the parking lot.

"Wait!" Rogue slipped her bag off her shoulder, swung it into the van, and ran after Kurt. "Kin Ah come with you?"

Kurt turned and stared at her. "To Mass?" he asked, incredulous.

"Yeah." Rogue could feel herself blushing scarlet at her own daring. "Am Ah not allowed, or something? Ah ain't Catholic."

"No, you're allowed. I just didn't think you'd vant to."

"Well, you're mah brother. If it's important tuh you, Ah wanna come."

Kurt grinned at her. "I'd like zat."

"_Moi, aussi,_" Gambit declared, tossing his bag in after Kurt's and Rogue's.

"You, too?" Rogue echoed, staring at him with more astonishment than Kurt had displayed when staring at her.

"_You're_ going to _church_?" Kitty echoed. "Are you Catholic, too?"

Gambit raised an eyebrow at her. "What part'a 'Cajun' were you not understandin'? 'Couse I'm Catholic."

Kitty shrugged. "Okay, whatever. If all three of you are staying, the rest of us can take the van, and we'll leave you the SUV."

"Good plan," Gambit approved.

"Bobby, Sam, over here! We're leaving the SUV for these guys."

"Can I pick the radio station?" asked Bobby, taking the passenger seat and slamming the door behind him.

Gambit stepped aside to let Amara climb into the back seat, then closed the door after her and gave the van an encouraging smack. Kitty pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

"_You're_ goin' tuh Mass," Rogue repeated, as incredulous as ever.

"Didn'say I was goin' t'Mass. Said I was Catholic, an'I am. An'as such, I've heard de Mass already. Lotta times. Enough. So I'm goin' to de auto parts store t'get some stuff I need for my bike, an' I'll meet y'all outside de church in an hour so you kin gimme a ride home."

Rogue had never in her life seen a person look less ashamed of himself.

"You're an awful person, y'know that? An' if there's a Hell, they've got a little cubicle in it all set out for you with your name on it and everything."

Gambit gave her a jaunty, cheeky wave as he strolled off towards downtown.

Rogue snorted. "Jerk."

Kurt shrugged. "Well, zat's his call. Come on. It's embarrassing to show up late."

Rogue fell into step beside him, discreetly lengthening each step with her flight powers to keep up with Kurt's springy, energetic stride. "Just promise me y'won't let me make a fool a'mahself," she begged. "Ah've never been tuh Mass before. Don't think Ah've even been tuh church in . . ." she paused and counted, "like four years."

"Don't worry. It's all written down in the book. Just stand up when I do and you'll be okay."

Though not one hundred percent comforted, Rogue followed him the two blocks down the street to what proclaimed itself to be Sacred Heart Catholic Church. It was—thank goodness—warm inside, and also dim and quiet despite the large number of people congregating there.

Kurt dipped his finger into a little bowl of water that was bolted to the doorframe at the entrance to the sanctuary and crossed himself as he stepped inside. Rogue glanced around, hoping to see someone else come in without making the gesture to let her know it was okay to do so. Seeing no one, she dipped her middle finger into the bowl and touched it to her forehead, then her chest. Then she paused, unable to remember if Kurt had finished the cross right shoulder to left shoulder or the other way around. Would it be a satanic gesture or something if she did it backwards? Gritting her teeth against being struck by lighting, she tried left to right. Nothing happened to her, so she assumed that either she'd guessed correctly or it wasn't too big of a deal.

The chapel was pretty crowded. Kurt walked up the aisle to a bench near the middle where only a couple of people were sitting, dropped briefly to one knee, and took a seat. Rogue followed him. She wanted to ask if she'd got the cross thing right, but he didn't seem to think now was the time to explain anything to her. He folded out a little cushioned bench from the pew in front of him, knelt on it, folded his hands together and bowed his head.

_Praying. Right_. Glancing around, Rogue saw that many others were doing the same, but others were just sitting and waiting for the service to start. It would probably be okay for her to do either. Hesitantly, she lowered herself onto the bench and rested her forearms on the back of the pew in front of her. It was an awkward position, but she had a strong back and could hold the pose for a while.

She looked up at the crucifix displayed at the top of the room. The body of Christ, skeletal and obviously in a lot of pain, hung both passively and majestically from the lighter-wooden cross.

_How does Kurt stay so cheerful if he comes here and looks at that for an hour every week?_ she wondered, biting her lip. _What a goshawful way to die._ To avoid looking at it, she bowed her head and stared at her clasped, gloved hands.

_Hey, Lord,_ she began hesitantly. This didn't seem a very appropriate way to address God, but it was the way she addressed everybody and she couldn't think of anything better. _It's, uh, me. Hi. _

She felt very much like she'd been left alone in a room with someone who'd known her when she was little, but whom she couldn't remember at all. It was the same sort of awkwardness. _I go by Rogue now, _she explained apologetically. _Kinda suits me better. I hope you're okay with that._

He seemed to be.

_So, uh . . . I've been doing okay. Not great, y'know. I moved up here to New York after I found out I have these powers that make it so I'll never be able to touch anyone again. Which was, y'know, not great. But I wasn't all that touchy-feely to begin with, so I guess it's okay. And it ended me up at the Institute, which is good. It's a good place to live. It's like all of a sudden I've got more brothers and sisters than I know what to do with. More parents, too. But that's where I found Kurt. That was a pretty one-in-a-million chance, that his long-lost birth mom was my long-lost adopted mom and so we're, y'know, not _exactly_ brother and sister but pretty close. I guess it was kind of a miracle, maybe. So thanks. Thanks for giving me a brother. I like him. And thanks for everybody else, too. Kitty . . . I don't know anybody else who'd put up with having me for a roommate. And Logan, 'cause he talks tough but is always there for me when I need him. And Scott, who's such a good friend, and Jean, who's a nice person even if she is freakin' perfect all the time. Sorry. And thank you for Remy. I dunno if I should be thanking you for him, because he'd kind of a scumbag, and he pretended he was coming here so he could skip training and go to the auto parts store, which he'll probably go to Hell for, but I'm glad to have him all the same. And when you're judging him, please take into consideration that he's saved my life a couple times and he doesn't try to tick Scott off nearly as much as he used to, and as far as I know he hasn't stolen anything since he came to the Institute. So, I guess that's it, really. I've got a pretty good life these days. Good home, people who care about me. Thank you for all that._

An organ started playing. Rogue looked up, said a hasty _Amen_, and scooted back into her seat. Kurt lifted the little kneeling-bench up out of the way, then took one of the books from the rack built into the back of the pew in front of them and flipped it open. "There. That's the Order of Mass. Just follow along."

With the book to guide her, Rogue didn't feel quite as lost, though the service seemed to jump around a lot. It also involved a lot of singing, at which she wasn't very good, unless it was some old Cajun song about something horribly depressing, but she muddled through without drawing attention to herself. All the same, she was relieved when they reached the Lord's Prayer. This was something she knew.

The priest, a tall, skinny man with a hooked nose, intoned, "The peace of the Lord be with you always."

"And also with you," answered Rogue with everyone else. She'd heard something fairly similar a couple of times now, and she was beginning to get the hang of it.

"Let us offer each other the sign of peace," the priest suggested.

Kurt turned to her and reached for her hand. "Peace be vith you, Rogue," he told her, a smile all over his sweet, little-brother face.

"Peace be with yeh, Kurt," Rogue answered.

A white-haired woman in the pew in front of her offered her hand and a smile. Rogue took both, thinking to herself that this was one part of the Mass she genuinely liked. She shook the hands of three other people sitting in front of her, then turned around to shake hands with those behind her. And through the doorway at the end of the room, she caught a flicker of movement.

She nudged Kurt with her elbow. "Look at that."

Kurt twisted inside just in time to see Gambit stride into the chapel and take an empty place on the last row of pews.

Rogue grinned. "He came after all!"

Kurt didn't smile. Instead, he turned to face the front of the church again, his forehead crinkled in sudden concern.

Rogue didn't have time to ask him what was wrong before the service started up again, so she bit her tongue and concentrated on keeping up in the book. When he went up to the front of the chapel, leaving her alone in the pew for a few seconds, she took another glance over her shoulder. Gambit was still there, not singing, but standing in thoughtful silence with his eyes fixed on her.

When they had all been instructed to "Go in the peace of Christ," Kurt knelt down again, but this time turned sideways, squeezing himself in between the pews. "Come here."

Rogue ducked down. "Everybody else is standin' up," she whispered.

Kurt grabbed her hand, and she felt a sudden jolt and a rush of hot, sulfuric air all around her. They'd teleported out of the chapel, onto the floor of the coatroom by the front door of the church.

"What was that for?" Rogue demanded. Kurt shushed her, and she lowered her voice. "Gambit's gonna be looking for us."

"I don't think zat vas Gambit," Kurt whispered, climbing quietly to his feet.

"Huh?"

"Didn't you see him? He didn't bless himself when he came into the chapel."

"So? I dunno if you've noticed, but he's not really a very good Catholic."

"Doesn't matter. Nobody raised Catholic vould come into a church without blessing himself. It's not something you think about. You just do it."

"Ah think you're crazy."

"Just let me take a look." Kurt slipped out of the coatroom and into the entrance hall of the church, Rogue scrambling after him.

Everybody was lining up go leave, shaking hands with the priest as they went. Some people were clustering around he entrance hall, chatting, so Kurt and Rogue's sneaking wasn't quite as conspicuous as it might otherwise have been. Dodging the crowd, Kurt edged to the door of the chapel and peeked around the corner. Rogue, checking guiltily to see that no one was watching, picked herself up off the floor a few inches so she could see over Kurt's head. There were still dozens of people in the church, talking and laughing as they waited for the crowd ahead of them to clear, but no Gambit.

"He's not in there," Kurt announced.

"Is there a back way or anything?"

"Probably someplace, but vhy vhould he use it?"

"T'be contrary, probably."

Kurt squeezed past a few people and slipped back inside, heading to the pew where they'd seen Gambit. A cluster of middle-aged people were still there, chatting.

"Excuse me," Kurt interrupted. "Ve're looking for our friend. He was sitting right here, and he was supposed to meet us after the service. Red eyes?"

"Yeah, I remember him," offered one of the men, heavyset and balding, his red face creased with the shadows of many laughs. "I heard about that kid. I've got a granddaughter who just started at Bayville High this year who told me about him. Woulda made me mighty nervous, eyes like that, otherwise."

"Didja see where he went?" asked Rogue.

"No, sorry. Was just here a minute ago, wasn't he?"

"Thanks anyway," Kurt offered politely. He looked at Rogue, making a "Well, now what do we do?" face.

Rogue took another glance around the room, which was as empty of redheaded Cajuns as it had been the last time she looked. It was also beginning to be empty of anybody else. She dropped to her hands and knees to see if Gambit . . . or not-Gambit, as Kurt thought . . . had dropped anything of interest. He hadn't.

She climbed back to her feet. The chapel was now all but empty. "Should we go look for him at the auto parts store?" she asked.

Kurt shrugged, unable to think of a better plan, and together they turned to the door.

And just then, Gambit walked inside.

"Y'all done wid de hallelujahs yet?" he asked, grinning his unrepentant grin. He crossed the entrance hall and stepped through the door of the chapel. As he did, his right hand reached out, so casually that Rogue almost doubted he'd noticed the movement, to the little bowl of holy water on the doorframe. Head, heart, left shoulder, right shoulder, just as Kurt had done.

"I told you," Kurt told her.

Gambit's smile faded as he studied the two faces staring at him. "_Quoi?_"

* * *

"So the long and short of this is that Gambit skipped training _and_ church," said Logan.

"That's the, uh, short of it," Rogue admitted.

"Uh-huh." He pointed accusingly at Gambit and announced, "You're in trouble, mister." Then he folded his arms again and returned his attention to Kurt and Rogue. "And you two saw a Gambit that wasn't there."

Kurt nodded. "He came in towards the end, and was there until everybody left. Then he was gone."

He glanced nervously at Rogue, who pressed her lips into a thin, worried line and looked away.

Logan sighed. "I know what you two are thinkin', so you don't have to say it. But it ain't that. There's a dozen ways you could've seen what you saw, and you both know it. So go take care of your homework and quit your worrying. I'll see what I can find out."

Rogue nodded. "Thanks, Logan."

The words were simple, but the feeling behind them was so fervent that she nearly blushed at the sound of her own voice. But Rogue had never been so grateful for Logan as she was at that moment. He understood her fears, and didn't hold her in contempt for them, and would slice them into pieces the second he could bring them within reach of his claws.

Seeing the struggle for calm that crossed her face, Logan reached out and hugged her. Logan was one of the few people that she would allow so close to her, and she silently consented to be hugged, and in her own surly way was grateful for the gesture.

When Kurt and Rogue had both left the room, Logan turned to Gambit. "You're changing the oil on every vehicle in the house, because it needs doing, and then you're cleaning up the observation room. And what they saw ain't for general chitchat. _Comprends?_"

"_Oui, je te comprends._" Gambit took his punishment in good humor, and gave his promise of silence with understanding. He left the room to change into something rattier that wouldn't mind getting motor oil on it.

Logan headed for Professor Xavier's office.

"Going out," he announced. "Back later."

It was the strict rule of the household that anyone leaving had to tell someone where they were going and when they would be back. Logan never broke this rule. Where he was going was 'out,' and when he was going to be back was 'later.' He'd been known to disappear into the Canadian backwoods for months at a time, or jump on nonstop flights to Japan, after informing the Professor that he was going 'out' and would be back 'later.'

"What's the matter?" asked Professor Xavier, looking up from the papers he was working on.

"Hopefully nothing. Keep an eye on Kurt and Rogue for me." He swung the study door closed and went to find his jacket.

* * *

Author's Notes:

Sorry about the delay! That free time I was expecting didn't quite materialize. So we are a day late and a dollar short, _comme d'habitude_ (like normal).

And here's the French for the Day:

_Quoi? _What?

_Comprends? _Understand?

_Oui, je te comprends_: Yes, I understand you.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Chapter 4

* * *

"I hope you'll take this in the right spirit, Logan, when I say that there's nothing I like less than receiving a visit from you," Nick Fury observed, glaring amiably over his desk at Logan. The Canadian was splattered thoroughly with mud from a long motorcycle ride in bad weather, and his wool-lined leather jacket was still fastened up to the throat against the late-February cold. "It never ends well for me."

"Just needing to check on your prisoner," said Logan. "If she's still where I think she is, then there's no problem."

"She was this morning," Nick deadpanned. "Still playing her mind games, of course, but certainly there. Not that she hasn't given us a couple of scares. She's trickier than the devil in a poker game."

"What kind of scares?"

"Well, back in November she got hold of a key . . . not the key to her cell, just some other key . . . and very nearly slit her guard's throat with it. He's all right, poor guy, but it was a close shave. Then three weeks ago she pulled a bit of sleight-of-hand that would have let her wander right out of this base if we hadn't caught her in time. Still not quite sure how she did it."

Logan took a chair, despite his not having been offered one, and crossed his arms. "What happened?"

"I wasn't on duty at the time, so I didn't see it. But she copied the form of the doctor who'd come to give her a physical . . . it's quarterly routine for long-term prisoners. Of course, she'd been pulling tricks like that for months, and nobody paid much attention. But the guard left them alone for a minute, and when he came back there were two Dr. Mansfields, one inside the cell yelling his head off and the other outside the cell looking annoyed and worried. Not a big deal, of course . . . just her same old game . . . but then the Dr. Mansfield _outside_ the cell started shape-shifting. Somehow—and even Dr. Mansfield was never quite sure how she did it—she got outside her cell, locked him in, and would have waltzed right out of here if she hadn't lost control of her powers when she did."

Logan's scowl deepened. "What happened after that?"

"Nothing much. We got him out and put her back inside, though she was still playing her part to the hilt, her unmasking notwithstanding. And she's been playing it ever since. She hasn't been anybody but Dr. Mansfield for the better part of a month, trying frantically to persuade anyone in earshot that she really _is_ the man himself."

"And what about Dr. Mansfield?"

"A little shaken, but not hurt. He was back on duty right away."

Logan pondered the information he'd received for a long moment. "Can I see her?" he asked.

"Figured you'd want to." Fury pushed himself away from his desk and stood up. "She's downstairs."

Logan followed him out of the room and down the long, gray corridors of the SHIELD base.

"I do appreciate your concern, Logan," he continued, placing his hand on the palm scanner for the elevator. "Mystique's one of the most dangerous people in the world. But we're taking every precaution."

"If you were taking _every_ precaution, you wouldn't be keeping her in New York," Logan deadpanned. "She's barely two hundred miles from the Institute."

"Well, wherever we kept her she'd be within two hundred miles of _something_. I can't maneuver the whole of SHIELD to keep it away from your house, just because it's yours."

Logan snorted, but kept silent.

To Nick's credit, the security on Mystique's cell was nothing to scoff at. The main door was covered by two guards carrying considerable firepower, Beyond that was an anteroom, manned by another guard whose task was to verify the identity of everyone going in or out. He had code-secured control of the next door, which was plexiglass. It led to a room no larger than a closet, and the plexiglass door at the end of _that_ led to the cell. The two plexiglass doors could not be opened at the same time. Neither could be opened by anyone but the guard in the anteroom.

With Nick Fury's authorization, Logan stepped through the first of the two doors, waited until it locked behind him, then pushed on into the cell. His claws weren't out, but he was ready to extend them in a heartbeat. He knew how fast Mystique could be.

The cell offered minimal comfort and almost no privacy, but other than that the arrangements appeared to be humane. Logan took them in with approval. But his immediate attention was fixed on the person curled miserably on the comfortless bed. The person looked like a heavyset, middle-aged man in a suit and lab coat, the fabric stiff from being worn too long. He raised his head and looked at Logan, and the look was empty and desperate.

Logan took a deep breath through his nose. The scent of Mystique was heavy in the little room. Other people had been in and out—he recognized Nick's motor-oil smell, and the faint trace of antiseptic that medical personnel always seemed to carry with them, and the shadows of the last dozen or so meals that had been brought in.

He crossed the room and dropped into a crouch next to the bed, his eyes still fixed unwaveringly on its occupant. He took another breath, his face expressionless.

In a cracked, exhausted voice, the person in the bed commented, "I don't suppose _you'd _believe I am who I say I am."

Logan didn't answer. He watched his companion for one minute longer, then stood up and returned to the door without turning his back to the bed. There was a faint pneumatic hiss as the lock disengaged. Logan pulled the door open and stepped into the entry room, pulling the door closed in front of him before he turned to look at Nick.

As soon as the second door was open, Logan snapped an order. "Get that man out of there and let him go home."

"What?" Nick demanded.

"There's no way that guy's Mystique. She's gotten pretty good at masking her scent, but right up close like that, there's no way I'm wrong. That man's your Dr. Mansfield. Mystique has been wandering freely around your base for the past three weeks. You might want to send some of your guns after her. In the meantime, let that man out and give him some clean clothes."

"Logan, that's impossible. Curtis here" he nodded at the door guard "saw the whole thing. The one that could shape-shift is the one we locked up. Dr. Mansfield could no more change his shape than fly to the moon. I know every mutant in SHIELD, and he's not one of them. Flatscan. Normal."

"I dunno how she did it," Logan snarled, "but it's done. Run a blood test on your prisoner if you don't believe me. She's fooled you all. Now I suggest you call _your _Dr. Mansfield and find a way to get her in range of your snipers."

Nick gave him a long, suspicious glare. Logan returned it, minus the suspicion but with a whole lot of annoyance.

Nick grabbed the phone from Curtis's desk and punched in a number. "Present location of Doctor Robert Mansfield," he demanded of the person on the other end. After a long, tense moment, he slammed the handset back into its cradle. "Called in sick yesterday," he announced, his voice strained with anger. "Could be on the other side of the planet by now."

"I can tell you where she was yesterday afternoon. In Bayville, stalking my kids. Thanks again for putting her so close to the Institute." Logan strode out of the cell, so abruptly that he would have received a bullet in the back if Nick hadn't jumped after him and signaled the guards to stand down. "Nice talkin' to ya," he snapped over his shoulder. "We should do this again sometime."

"Not if I can help it," Fury called after him.

* * *

It was four a.m. when Logan got back to the mansion, cold, wet, furious, exhausted. He killed the engine and pulled his helmet off, scrubbing his face with one damp, gloved hand. It was a miracle he hadn't smashed into oncoming traffic. Not that it would have mattered to him, of course, but it would have meant the end of his beloved Harley.

A light flickered on inside the house. The door from the garage to the kitchen swung open, and Logan saw Jean standing in the opening, wrapped in a bathrobe and her own shivering embrace.

"What're you doing up?" he snarled, swinging off the bike and dropping his helmet to the concrete floor.

"Making tea," said Jean. "Your psychic impression woke me up about ten minutes ago. It sounded ticked."

"Get inside before you freeze."

He followed her inside and shut the door, stripping off his wet coat and gloves. The kettle started to burble, threatening to shriek. Jean took it off the burner and poured it into the mugs she had waiting. "So I'm guessing you don't have any good news."

"When do I ever?" Logan wrapped his hands around the mug she placed in front of him, feeling the warmth seep into his fingers. "She's gone. I don't know how she did it, but she did it."

Jean pulled up a stool next to him and measured a spoonful of honey into her mug. "Then in the morning we'll have to tell Rogue and Kurt."

"I was thinkin' to start by telling the Professor, actually."

"Well, of course you're going to tell the Professor. I just wanted to remind you that Rogue and Kurt will have to know. I know you don't want to have to give them that burden."

Logan hmphed. "If there's one thing I hate, it's nosy psychics."

Jean smiled and shook her head. "I don't know what you're thinking because I'm psychic. I know it because I've known you since I was eleven years old. I know you like to take the blame for anything that could hurt those under your charge. And I know that you and Rogue are really close. I don't want to see her have to go through another emotional mess with Mystique, either. But she's strong enough to handle it. You need to trust her."

"I know she's strong enough. Ain't nobody tougher than our Rogue. But just because she can take it doesn't mean she should have to."

"You're right. She shouldn't have to. It's not fair." Jean reached across the counter and put her hand over Logan's. Though she knew that his adamantium claws could come slicing out from between his knuckles at any second, there was no hesitation, not a trace of concern for her safety. "I know you'd take the hurt from her if you could," she assured him. "And Rogue knows it, too. It's why she loves you. It's why we all do."

Logan squeezed her fingers, grateful for their warmth against his wind-chilled skin and for the little redheaded girl that was growing up into a confidante and friend. When she withdrew her hand, the heat and comfort of her grip remained.

"Drink your tea," she ordered gently. "Then go take a hot shower and get some rest. We'll deal with it in the morning."

A shadow of a smile forced its way onto Logan's face. "Thanks, Red."

Jean snuggled herself into her bathrobe and lifted the mug of tea to her face where she could breathe its steam. "What are friends for?" she asked rhetorically, a smile teasing at the corners of her mouth.

* * *

"Mystique."

"Yeah."

Rogue sat very still on the couch in Professor Xavier's office, her posture ramrod-straight with discomfort and stress. Next to her, Kurt was perched on the back of the couch like a monkey, his tail whipping back and forth behind him. He was nervous and upset, but Rogue was paralyzed.

"Now we know," Logan assured her, "and we're on the lookout. She's probably not interested enough to hang around, not now she knows how dangerous it is for her to stay. Anywhere else in the world is safer for her than Bayville. She's not stupid. She'll move on, leave you two alone."

"And even if she doesn't," offered Professor Xavier, "we are ready for her. Her disguises have improved, but with the whole household on alert they won't protect her for long. You will be safe."

Rogue snorted. "Ah'm invulnerable. You could drop a nuclear bomb on me an'Ah'd still be safe."

"No doubt," acknowledged Professor Xavier. He knew better than to make Rogue own up to her fears and weaknesses, at least in public. "But we felt you had the right to know what Logan found out, since you two have a personal stake in it. Whether you want to let the other students know is for you to decide. The teachers, of course, will have to be told, as will Scott. Jean already knows."

Though she struggled to mask it, bitterness still snuck into Rogue's voice. "She knew before we did?"

"She _is_ psychic," offered Logan, in Jean's defense. "She won't say a word unless you tell her it's okay."

Kurt, seeing that Rogue had no intention of saying another word, spoke up for her. "Thank you for telling us." He poked Rogue in the back with the tip of his tail, reminding her that she'd have to stand up if she wanted to get out of the room. Rogue stood, walked to the door, opened it, stepped through, and closed it, all with forced, mechanical calmness.

Kurt ported onto the roof.

He was just in time to watch Rogue go streaking off into the sky like a bullet. Kurt sat down and waited for her to circle back. Which she did, after about ten minutes. She loved Kurt too well to really abandon him right now, no matter how much she might have wanted to just fly away and never stop.

"Vhat should ve do?" Kurt asked her as she dropped lightly onto the roof, her hair flaring up around her face and then dropping down again.

"You're askin' me?" she sighed. "Ah don't even know which way mah head's screwed on right now."

"Should ve tell the others? You'll tell Gambit, at least, right?"

Rogue groaned. "Yeah, he'll have it outta me whether Ah want t'tell him or not. And they're gonna have to know. It'd be too dangerous for them otherwise."

Kurt nodded. "Okay. And maybe it von't even matter. She might do like Logan said, and just move on."

Rogue glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "Well, try to contain your excitement, will ya? What's the matter . . . you _want_ her to stay?"

Kurt shrugged. "No, not really. I mean, there are a lot of questions I'd like to ask her, but . . . not enough to take the risk."

"The risk that she'd try to hurt you, or the risk that you just wouldn't like her answers?"

"Kinda both. But I have a mother already. I don't need Mystique. Sure, I'm curious about her, but I can live vith zat."

Rogue nodded, curling up with her knees pulled into her chest and her arms wrapped around them.

"Vhat about you?" Kurt asked. "Do you ever wonder, sometimes . . . if she thinks about us?"

Rogue sighed. "She used to tell me she did," she admitted, her voice hardly more than a mutter. "Irene brought me up, but Ah always knew she was just a foster mom, that she was keepin' an eye on me while my real mom was busy. Ah didn't love her any less for that. But sometimes I'd have a nightmare, and Ah'd wake up, and just . . . just _want my mom_ so bad Ah felt like the world was gonna crunch in around me, like Ah just couldn't, _couldn't_ stand bein' away from her for one more minute. Ah'd wake up Irene, and she'd let me curl up in her bed, and she'd call.

"My mama's voice was real southern, like mine. Ah liked that. She'd call me Sweetpea, and tell me she'd been thinkin' about me, and ask me what was wrong, and Ah'd tell her about the dream. Then when it was done, she'd ask if Ah thought Ah could sleep now, and Ah said Ah could. And Ah always said, 'Ah love you, Mommy,' and she always answered, 'You be good for Irene now. Sleep tight.'" Rogue caught her lower lip in her teeth and bit it until the pain restored her composure. "She never once answered back 'Ah love you too.' Never once. She came sometimes t'visit, brought presents. She had brown hair, and her skin was real pale. Purple shadows of stress round her eyes. Ah liked t'see her, but it's those phone calls Ah remember. But as Ah grew up, the nightmares went away, and Irene stopped makin' calls. Then Ah manifested, and Principal Darkholme brought me t'Bayville."

Without quite realizing it, she started to rock, back and forth, finding comfort in the steady rhythm of the world as it tilted around her. "That woman who called me Sweetpea was Mystique. Ah kin forgive her for bein' Principal Darkholme, for bein' Risty, even for being Kitty that time in the mall. But how kin Ah forgive her for the brown-haired woman with the drawl? How kin Ah forgive her for never sayin' 'Ah love you'? How can Ah, Kurt?"

Kurt wrapped his arms around her, one around her back and one around her knees, helping her to hold herself together. "Maybe you can't," he admitted. "Maybe you don't have to right now. Forgiving her is God's business. When you need to, He'll help you." He sighed and shook his head. "Sorry. Zat vas out of line."

Rogue rolled her head back and groaned. "If you apologize one more time for bein' Catholic, Ah'm gonna smack you."

"No, the 'sorry' vas for acting like _I _have ze answers to _your_ problems."

"Well, somebody'd better, 'cause Ah sure don't."

They sat in silence together for a long while, Rogue taking deep breaths to compose herself and stuff her memories back into the past where they belonged. Then she straightened up and announced, "Let's go tell the others."

* * *

Kurt did most of the talking. Rogue stood beside him, her defenses up and her face grim. When Gambit caught her eye, he almost wished he hadn't. Her answering glare snarled 'don't touch me' as eloquently as any words could. Logan's news was a blow to her, and everybody knew it, but she wasn't going to let it show. She was Rogue the Invulnerable, and she was not going to fall sobbing into Gambit's arms while the entire team looked on. She was going to stand on her own two feet and spit in the eye of Mystique and anyone else who dared to pity her.

"So what are we gonna do?" Bobby asked. "I mean, do we know what she wants? Do we know where she's going?"

It was Amara who voiced what everyone was thinking. "What if she wants us?"

"All she has to do is copy one of us and she's in the house," said Kitty. "She could be anybody, all the time."

"She could be here right now," Jamie whimpered.

Glances were exchanged across the room, suspicious and frightened.

"_Non,_" Gambit announced. He shoved his biology textbook off his lap and let it fall to the floor as he stood up. "She's sneaky, but she ain't perfect. There are ways a'keepin' her out, spottin' who's friend and who's foe. First off, she can't copy our powers. Those are ours." He pulled a card from his pocket. By sheer good luck, it was the ace of spades. He charged it and held it up, letting it flicker for a few seconds before it fizzled into ash. "So now y'all know I'm Gambit, and nobody else."

He looked down at Kitty, who'd been sitting on the couch next to him. "You next, _Minou_."

Kitty stood up and stuck her arm through the wall.

"Good. Bobby."

Bobby reached up a hand. A heavy layer of frost coated the ceiling.

"Ray."

Electricity crackled from Ray's fingertips.

One by one, they proved themselves, until everyone in the room was sure that everyone else was who they said they were.

"Now here in de house, we safe enough. We got Jean, Logan, an'de Professor who kin spot Mystique if dey watchin' for her. Plus all de security codes she don'know. An' we kin use our powers, so we can always check. But school's another problem. We split up an'come back t'gether half dozen times a day, an'no powers allowed, an' no psychics or hunters coverin' our backs. So we need a way to check dat we are who we say we are, every time we meet, every day. Sign an' countersign. Every secret society has 'em. It's how dey spot each other, even after years a'bein apart, even if dey never met each other before. We use sign an' countersign, and Mystique never gonna sneak into us."

"Yeah, like a password!" Amara cried. "That's a great idea!"

"Or a secret handshake," said Jamie.

"But you guys, we can't have a _secret handshake_," Kitty insisted. "I mean, it's gonna be obvious what we're doing. And we'll look weird."

"Not if it's something really small," said Ray. "Like that game, Psychiatrist. You guys ever played that? You send one person out of the room, and then everybody else decides on one thing they have in common . . . like a movement they do, or a word they say, or the way they answer questions, or something they change about their clothes . . . and then the psychiatrist comes back in and has to guess what it is. I played it with my friends at my old school, and we once kept a round going for twenty minutes just because we started every sentence with 'Um'."

"That's great!" said Sam. "So, like, when you see somebody in the hall at school, you just . . . I dunno, wink or something. And then they have to say back, "Um, hi, Sam," or, "Um, get out of my way," Or "Um whatever," and then we know. And if somebody doesn't do it, then that somebody is Mystique."

"And nobody's going to notice a little thing like a wink," Amara elaborated. "Or 'um'. Everybody says that. So we'll always know."

Gambit grinned at her and winked. She giggled. "Um, hi, Gambit."

"It don't work if y'giggle," Gambit told her.

Amara forced her expression into studied neutrality. "Right. No giggling."

"I think ve can do zis," said Kurt. "I think it vill vork."

Rogue nodded. "Yeah."

"Sign an' countersign," Gambit said again. "No forgettin' it. No exceptions. And no spreadin' it around. Not to Amanda, or Lance, or _anybody_. Dis is about keepin' each other safe. So we all countin' on each other t'keep dis secret between us. Right?"

"Right," echoed everybody. The stress and worry that had been smothering the room at the start of the conversation was suddenly gone. In its place was excitement and assurance. Nothing picked the mood up like starting a secret club. And Rogue was calm again.

* * *

When Gambit went upstairs to put his books away before dinner, he was not surprised to turn and see Rogue standing in the doorway of his bedroom.

"Y'always manage to come save me," she observed.

Gambit let a half-smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "I like savin' you."

"How come?"

"'Cause it makes you smile."

He could see her fighting it, but in the end she lost the battle, and smiled. "Thank you."

He crossed the room and wrapped her up in his arms, holding her tight as he breathed in the scent of her, part magnolias and part cold, clear air from miles above the ground and part something dark and rich and spicy-sweet that he couldn't quite identify. He wanted to tell her something . . . something about how that smell made him feel secure and calm, or about how he loved the way she rubbed her face against his chest when she was tired or sad, or how her trust made him believe that he was still worth something in this world. But when it came right down to it, he found that most of these ideas were very hard to articulate. So instead he said, "Yo'welcome, _chère_," and left it at that.

* * *

Author's Notes: All the French in this chapter is stuff you guys already know, so . . . no French lesson today. Sorry.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Chapter 5

* * *

"If I have to do one more AP practice test, I'm gonna hurl," Kurt complained as he scrambled into the back seat of the van. "My wrists are killing me from writing all those essays."

"Did you do the one about the Soviet Union?" asked Rogue, who had shotgun.

"Yeah."

"What'd you say?"

"That it fell 'cause it was stupid and nobody liked it."

"Y'wouldn't be biased on dat, now would you, _mein herr_?" asked Gambit, strolling up to the van and offering the quick wink that had by now become second nature to the entire team.

"Um, me? Biased? Of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

Bobby jumped into the driver's seat and winked at Rogue. "Okay, I checked the headlights and the taillights and the tires and . . . something else, what was it?"

"Um, nah, that's good. Just wait 'till Ray shuts the door and we'll get outta here."

"Locked and loaded," said Ray, heaving the heavy sliding door into place.

"You buckled?"

A click. "Yeah!"

"Okay." Bobby buckled his own seatbelt and put his hands on the steering wheel. "Okay, so . . . adjust the mirrors . . ."

"Y'don't have to adjust them. You did it this morning when you drove here."

"Right." Bobby adjusted the rear-view mirror anyway, scooted in his seat, and jabbed the key into the ignition. "Hold down the brake, and . . . there we go!"

He promptly let up on the brake too fast, jerking the van forward and then bringing it to a shuddering halt. Ray whooped and held his arms above his head. "Do it again!"

"Shut up," Rogue ordered. "You're makin' him nervous, and if he gets any more nervous he's gonna kill us all."

"X-Men killed in car crash due to incompetent student driver," said Kitty, predicting the headline. "And Mr. Anderson can take _that_ as his example of irony in literature."

Now looking a little paler, Bobby eased up on the brake and accelerated more smoothly out of the parking lot.

"Don't forget to signal."

"I didn't! There."

Despite all predictions to the contrary, they made it home without fatalities. The garage was filled with teasing and congratulations as the team piled out of the van and SUV and headed into the kitchen.

Logan met them there.

His arms were folded across his chest, and his face was grim. Not that it wasn't always. But this was a different kind of grim . . . bad-news grim.

Adrenalin shot through Rogue's bloodstream almost at once. "What is it?" she demanded. "Mystique?"

Logan shook his head. "Gambit . . ."

Rogue felt Gambit freeze next to her. He'd had his arm around her waist, just playing, but suddenly his fingers were digging into her side as the muscles of his hand tensed. "What?"

"Hurricane hit New Orleans this morning."

Gambit didn't say anything.

"Storm's in the den. She's been doing what she can."

There was one more pause, then Gambit was gone.

Rogue was after him, but Logan grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back. "You've got training, Stripes."

"Whatever!" Rogue snarled, pulling and twisting in a futile attempt to escape him without hurting him. "Let go'a me!"

"Leave him be. You go get changed for training. He'll be along."

Finally, not because anyone could force her to do anything she didn't want to do, but out of trust in Logan's judgment, Rogue stood down and did as she was told.

* * *

The television was on in the den. There were three laptops open on the coffee table, each one showing a different satellite feed. The tv was tuned to CNN. On every display, southern Louisiana was overlaid with heavy, churning swirls: some the white and gray of heavy clouds, others the bright reds, blues and purples of precipitation graphs. Storm sat on the sofa, her normally ramrod-straight posture slouched with fatigue.

In the frantic dizziness of the moment, Remy had no compassion on her. "What happened?" he demanded.

"It was only a minor storm yesterday," said Storm, forcing herself upright again and taking a deep breath. Her face was pale, and her lower lip had cracked open and bled. "It looked as though it would wear itself out before it made landfall, but it took a sudden turn and gathered strength. It reached the city at about ten o'clock this morning—nine, their time. It landed right on top of New Orleans."

When Remy spoke a gain, his voice was heavy with sarcasm and bitterness. "And you, Storm a'de X-Men, let it hit."

"I have done everything it was in my power to do. I weakened it, and sped its progress inland to rural areas where fewer people would be hurt. But I am half a continent away, and there was so little warning. And a hurricane is very powerful. Were I standing underneath it, I could not have stopped it completely. I knew New Orleans to be your home, and I knew of its precarious situation in the delta, so I did all that could be done. I am sorry, Gambit. My strength is spent."

She leaned her head back against the couch, closed her eyes, and sighed, her arms wrapped around her torso.

Gambit grabbed the television remote and turned the sound up.

" . . . reports as of right now are at least four major breaches in the city's levees, and we've got pretty extensive flooding. At least three of these breaks are on repair sites from the 2005 Katrina damage. Most of the repair projects had not been completed as of this storm's landfall, so the entire city, really, is vulnerable to flooding right now. Now, the flood gates at the mouths of the drainage canals have been closed, and that is slowing the flow of water into the city from the lake, but the flood gates mean that the pump system for draining what's already in place is completely shut down, and as rain continues to pummel the city, the missing pumps could prove fatally dangerous in the coming hours. The good news is that this storm has picked up a lot of speed, and it's losing strength unusually fast for a hurricane this size. It's the one good thing we've been able to see so far in this absolutely bizarre storm. It came out of nowhere, in a season when no one's expecting this kind of weather pattern, and although very few people had time to evacuate, there is hope that the worst of the storm is already well past us."

"Ain't no hurricanes in March," said Gambit, as though stating this fact would make the storm feel ashamed of itself and hurry out into the gulf until its season started in June.

"Well," sighed Storm, "there are now."

The announcer continued to chatter, his voice raised to combat the winds that were whipping around him. Behind him was one great, gray smear of wind and rain and debris.

No matter how long he stared at the screen, he couldn't see through the storm to the pillared white house where he'd grown up.

_Calm down_, he ordered himself. _Père's seen storms before. He knows what to do._

But knowing what to do could only keep someone safe for so long in the face of a storm like that. The house could be matchsticks by now. And all his friends in the city proper . . . where were they? Safe in some shelter, or trapped outside in that shrieking gale? Or floating face-first down the canals towards the river, never to be found or buried?

They could already all be dead.

Remy turned and left the room without a word of comfort or thanks for Storm. His spending money was upstairs in his bedroom, tucked away in a hole he'd made underneath the floor skirting. He pocketed it all and descended to the garage, motorcycle key in hand.

Rogue caught him on the staircase. "Where are you goin'?"

Gambit didn't even slow down.

"You're not thinkin' straight, Gambit. You know you can't go back. Ah'm sorry about what's happened, but you _know_ you can't go. _Listen _to me!"

She grabbed him by the coat and pulled him back, her grip inexorable. "Promise me," she begged. "Promise me you won't go back there."

The plea steadied him more than anything else would have done. Rogue didn't ask him for promises . . . she didn't want to hear him refuse to make them if he didn't think he could keep them. She'd never asked him for a promise before, though he'd seen her wishing she could. But now her normally pale face was chalk-white with fear. She knew what waited for him in New Orleans.

Gambit reached up and gently pried her fingers off his coat. "I ain't goin' back," he told her. "Just gotta make some phone calls. I'll be home soon." He brought her gloved hands—still gripping his like grim death—up to his lips and kissed them, not a promise, but something close to it.

"We got a phone in the house, don't we?" asked Rogue, still unwilling to let him out of her sight.

"_Ouais_. But dey's some numbers I can't let get logged on de caller i.d. And de fewer people know exactly where I am, de safer it's gonna be for de Institute. So I ain't usin' de house number. Now you gonna let go'a me?"

Rogue glanced down at her hands. "Ah don't want to," she admitted.

Gambit slipped his hands out of hers and pressed the palms together, her hands sandwiched between his. Part of him didn't want to deal with her right now—wanted to go tearing through the door and to the nearest payphone, without a thought to anyone or anything else—but part of him, the part that wasn't panicking, was calm enough to be grateful that there was someone to hold onto him.

"I promise you dat I will come home," he told her.

Rogue nodded and slipped her hands out from between his. "Then drive safe."

* * *

It was unseasonably warm for March, the change surprising and welcome after so many weeks of biting cold. The sky was blue, the sunshine was abundant, the road was damp with melting snow, and it was difficult to imagine that right now, in somewhere as close as New Orleans, all hell was breaking loose.

Remy stopped his motorcycle at the nearest convenient gas station and got the girl behind the counter to break a few bills into change. Then he took control of the pay phone outside the building, fed a handful of coins into it, and started dialing numbers.

The house line . . . no answer. His father's cell phone . . . no answer. His brother's cell phone . . . "_Voilà _Bobby, leave a message." His aunt and uncle in Lafayette . . . "This number is temporarily out of service. Please try again later." Dommage, his father's right hand . . . no answer. Dommage's wife Marianne . . . "The number you have reached is no longer in service." His mother's sister Adrienne . . . a strange, mechanical screeching of a malfunctioning phone line. Delphine's land line . . . "_On n'est pas là, tant pis pour toi_." Christian . . . "This is Chris, and right now I'm doing something more important than talk to you, so leave a message." Christian's parents . . . no answer.

Everyone else whose number he could remember. No luck.

He took a very deep breath and dialed Belladonna's mobile phone. No answer. The Beadreaux house in Blood Moon Bayou. No answer. Marius's cell phone. No answer.

He called the Cajun in Manhattan.

"Cajun, this is Matt."

"_Salut_. I'm lookin' for a friend a'mine, Dieudonné Allain. He an'his boys were playin' dere on _Mardi Gras_. Y'don't still got a phone number, do you?"

"Hold on a minute and let me check."

A very long wait.

"Still there?"

"_Ouais._"

"Got a pen?"

"_Ouais_."

Matt gave him the number. Gambit thanked him and hung up.

Three rings.

"Dis Don."

"Oh, _sainte__ vierge__._ Dis Remy. Y'all all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, we're all okay. It's rainin' like crazy, but nobody's hurt."

"I can't get anybody else t'answer de dang phone. I just called half a'N'Awlins. Listen, y'got any news on anybody? De LeBeaus, de Beadreauxs, de Falcons?"

"Remy, we're holed up in Alexandre's apartment wid a hand-crank radio an' cardboard over de windows. 'Till de storm clears, we got no news but who beat who at candlelight five-card. An' I ain't got much charge left on dis phone. But when stuff clears up, I'll find out what I can and call you. Dis number okay?"

"_Non. _Pay phone. Call de house." Remy gave him the number. "Collect or whatever, we got de money."

"_Comprends_. Sit tight. I call when I can."

"_Merci mille fois. Bonne chance._"

_"Et à toi._"

Remy hung up the phone and rested his forehead on the side of the box. He knew that the phone lines were down, that the cell towers were either toppled or blocked by the electrical interference of the storm. He knew he'd been lucky to get through to anybody at all. But despite this knowledge, he couldn't deny the overwhelming feeling that _la ville_ had turned her back on him.

It was for the best that the only person he'd reached had been Dieudonné. It had been near suicide to call half the people he'd called. He shuddered to think what would have happened if Marius . . . or worse, Belladonna . . . had picked up the phone. Don was outside the guilds, acquainted with the great families but not bound by the laws and contracts that a thief had to respect. He'd been lucky, all things considered.

A few days. That was the most he'd have to wait before Don contacted with news that everyone was all right.

And they would be all right. Jean-Luc was too wily and Marius was too stubborn for a hurricane to get the better of them.

He checked his wristwatch. It was seven minutes past six. Dinner was in an hour. He'd missed training again, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He felt certain that no one would come down on him for it this time. They might be less than pleased if he headed for the nearest bar and got himself drunk, as he was half inclined to do. Lots and lots of alcohol would make the time go faster until Don called back.

But he'd promised Rogue he'd come home. Home to a three-page calculus assignment and another draft of that stupid essay and an early bedtime so he would be rested for morning training. Home to being Gambit of the X-Men when all he could think about were the family and friends and home of Remy LeBeau.

* * *

Rogue felt her shoulders hit the wall of the Danger Room. It gave, curving around her body as it recoiled from the force of the impact. Rogue dug her heels into the steel and glared at the huge swinging ball that had hit her.

"Focus, Rogue!" Scott ordered. "You left yourself wide open!"

"Yeah, Ah know," Rogue snarled. She kicked off of the wall and shot forward, laying her body flat in the air so she presented a smaller target and directed more force. With both fists held out in front of her, she slammed into the ball, drove it back against the far wall of the Danger Room, and crushed it into a dish. "Take that, yeh stupid sucker," she snapped at it, swinging around to find something else to hit.

When Rogue was in a bad mood, the Danger Room was good for her. She, however, was very bad for the Danger Room. By the time Scott called a halt to the simulation, there were seven new dents in the walls, all of them in one way or another Rogue's fault.

"Everybody but Rogue can clear the room," said Logan. "You get down here, kid."

Rogue dropped to the ground, sulking. Logan eyed her as everyone else left the room. Once the door was closed behind Scott, he unsheathed his claws. "Looks like you need something more durable than the walls to hit."

Rogue glared at him. "Ah ain't _hittin'_ you."

"Your hand-to-hand's gotten sloppy since you went to flight school."

"Ah don't need my hand-to-hand anymore."

"My eye you don't." He sung at her with his right fist. She dodged, but too slowly. The tips of his claws glanced off her skin and sliced the sleeve of her uniform. "A year ago, I wouldn't've got near you."

Rogue swung back at him. He blocked, and she felt the faint metallic vibration of his skeleton absorbing the shock of her blow. "Lay off me, okay? Ah kin still take you."

"Prove it," he snarled. He drove at her abdomen with his left fist, claws still extended. They'd never tested Rogue's new skin against his claws, and Rouge didn't think a blow to the gut was really the best way to find out if she could withstand razor-sharp adamantium. She pivoted, spinning on one foot to kick him in the back and overbalance him. Logan was too clever for that one, though; he caught himself with one extended foot and twisted to catch her leg while it was still in the air.

He'd been right, Rogue realized after about ten seconds of sparring. She was getting sloppy. Her hand-to-hand had once been her greatest strength; even Scott had tried to stay out of her range during training. But Logan was wiping the floor with her. She gritted her teeth and focused on the fight.

"What're you pickin' on me for?" she demanded, ducking one of his punches and trying to grab his extended arm.

"Thinkin' of the furniture. When you're in this kinda mood, you break stuff that don't fix itself."

Rogue backhanded him across the face. He shook it off. "And if you need to get somethin' out of your system, now's a better time than when Gambit gets home."

"You leave Gambit outta this," Rogue ordered.

"I will if you will. He's got enough to deal with today without havin' to take care of you, too."

"He doesn't—" Logan got her in the gut with a closed, unclawed fist, and she struggled for breath. "—_Take care_ of me," she finished. "Ah take care of myself."

"If you do, today's a good day to do it. 'Cuz he's gonna have enough to worry about just holdin' himself together without you bein' mad at him too."

Rogue dropped and pivoted on her hands, going for his feet again. "None'a your stinkin' business."

"And his trouble's none'a yours."

"Ah _know_ that."

"Then why're you still snarling like a mad cat?"

Rogue stopped. Logan drew back a blow he was going to land on her shoulder, which was good because Rogue didn't have the presence of mind to block him right now. She _was_ mad, she realized. She was hurt and angry, and she didn't know why. Mad because a hurricane had hit New Orleans? That was nobody's fault; these things happened, and it wasn't as though it affected _her_ personally. Mad because Gambit had gone tearing off without a word to her? Annoying, but understandable . . . of course he'd want to call people, to make sure they were okay.

"Ah was scared," she admitted, the words flying out of her mouth as soon as she thought them. "He was just gonna dash out the door without saying anything to me, and . . . and what if he went back there, and Ah never saw him again?"

She wasn't sure whether she was more afraid of his being killed or being welcomed in New Orleans. There were two guilds of criminals waiting to slaughter him there—but there was also some girl she'd never met, who'd been for a few hours named Belladonna LeBeau.

Logan straightened up and sheathed his claws. "There's three kinds of X-Men on this team," he told her. "There's the kind like you and me, and Hank and the Professor, Scott kinda . . . the Institute's all we got. We got no ties to anywhere or anybody else. Our whole lives are in this house. Then there's the kind like Jean and Kitty and the younger ones. They've got homes and families outside, but the two lives mesh pretty well. Their parents are okay with them being here. They go home for the summer.

"Then there's Gambit. He left somethin' behind to join us, somethin' that doesn't mesh with the X-Men. He's got two lives that don't fit together. Tabitha was like that. And Evan."

Rogue did not comment on what had happened to Tabitha and Evan.

"I know it's rough for you, when someone you care about has loyalties somewhere else. But in some ways it's even harder bein' the one whose loyalties are split. People you love expect things of ya, and you know you're gonna have to let someone down, in the end. He may have just lost his home and his family today. He doesn't need to lose you, too."

Rogue knew he was right. He always was, when he condescended to give her advice. She couldn't deny it, but she didn't want to admit it, either. "Y'always take his side," she grumbled, sounding annoyed enough to assert her free will but subdued enough not to hurt his feelings.

Logan chuckled, deep in his throat. "I always take _your_ side, Stripes. You just don't know it."

* * *

Gambit entered the house bracing himself for a lecture. He wasn't sure whether it would be one from Scott, on skipping training, or from Logan on mouthing off to Storm, or on Rouge for hurting her feelings by leaving her behind. He didn't really care. He was too drained to care.

Rogue met him in the hall. Without saying a word, she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him.

Remy stood still, not hugging her back, waiting for something about 'thank goodness he didn't do something stupid like go back to New Orleans' or about how she was so worried or about how Scott and the Professor were mad. Nothing came. She just stood with her arms around him, warm and familiar and smelling of safety and contentment. He buried his face in her shoulder and slung his arms around her waist, suddenly as grateful for Rogue as a wanderer in the desert was grateful for water.

"Are they okay?' she asked, her voice no more than a murmur.

She had no reason to care about anyone in the entire state of Louisiana. No reason except him.

"I talked t'Don Allain. He's gonna call when he knows somethin'."

"That's good."

They stood in silence, holding and breathing one another, until Hank called everyone to dinner. "Time to eat, people!"

"Time to eat people!" Bobby echoed. The sound of slamming textbooks echoed from the living room.

Rouge kept her hand in Gambit's as they took their usual seats at the big oval table.

Storm's hair was disheveled; it looked like she'd spent most of the afternoon asleep, recovering from her hours of battle with the hurricane. Gambit felt a twinge of guilt. "I owe y'an apology, Storm," he told her. "Y'half killed yourself today helpin' dose people, an'I snapped at y'for y'trouble. I'm sorry."

Storm smiled at him. "There are no hard feelings, my friend."

"Were you able to collect any news of your friends in the path of the storm?" asked the Professor, wheeling up to his accustomed spot at the head of the table.

"A little, sir. I'm waitin' on more."

"I see. If you need a few days to go down to New Orleans, you're welcome to them. We could send down the jet."

Gambit felt Rogue's hand quiver a little inside his own, as though she were going rigid and trying to force herself to not. But Gambit was ready for the question. He could be calm now.

"_Merci, Professeur,_ but dat won't be necessary."

Professor Xavier nodded.

* * *

_Salut: _Hi.

_sainte vierge _: Holy Virgin, an oath.

I'm sure you all remember _comprends_, which in this context is now a 'got it' kind of expression.

_Merci mille fois:_ A thousand thanks.

_Bonne chance: _Good luck.

_Et à toi_: And for you.

As I hope you gathered from the news report, this hurricane is not Katrina, per say, but a fictional storm based upon it. It is written in tribute to all those whose lives were affected by that disaster.

Oh, and _mein herr _is 'sir' in German. Germany and Russia don't exactly have a good history. And that's pretty much what I wrote on my AP US History test when that question came up.


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

Chapter 6

* * *

As soon as the house was quiet, Rogue snuck over to the boys' wing and into Remy's room. He hadn't asked her to come, and she hadn't offered. She just came, bringing her own pillow and extra blanket. Remy moved over to make room for her, then fell asleep with the cotton of her glove under his fingertips.

* * *

"You comin' home, Remy?"

The words startled Remy out of his consideration of the beautiful black jet as it lifted off from the Louisiana swamp, and from the girl inside that he'd abused and manipulated but who had come to his rescue in the end. He wrenched his thoughts away from her and brought them back to his father, standing next to him in the gloomy gray-green darkness.

Jean-Luc LeBeau, though filthy after nearly a week of imprisonment, still carried himself with the bearing and grace of a man who knew himself to be powerful, respected, intelligent, and attractive to women. Not that this last did him much good anymore: his wife had been dead nearly five years, but he was still a faithful husband, as he had always been.

Remy looked him over. Part of him was still mad: mad at _Père _for getting himself caught in the first place, mad because _he'd_ been the one who had to come back and settle things, mad because his father still treated him as a commodity, mad because he'd shown the same lack of courtesy to Rogue. But he was tired of being mad at his father. The man had his faults, but in the two years since he'd run away Remy had come to understand that everybody did, in one way or another.

"What'd'you want me home for?" he asked. "Outta TNT again? Or you jis'can't see yo'way home in de dark?"

"Thought yo'brother'd wanna see you," said Jean-Luc levelly.

Remy glared at him. "Y'playin' me."

"Remy LeBeau, y'a t'ief a de Guild now. 'Side from payin' yo'tithes, ain't nothin' I can force y't'do against y'will. Y'a grown man. Do what y'want. But I sure could use a meal an' a shower, and outta gratitude fo'helpin' me I'd be happy t'offer you de same. No tricks."

When Remy didn't answer immediately, Jean-Luc just rolled his eyes and laughed. "_Sacré,_ Remy! I ain't never seen a single man so jittery about goin't'his own home an'sleepin' in his own bed. Jis'come on."

The casual command was somehow much more welcoming than the polite invitation. An invitation meant Jean-Luc was maneuvering for something he wanted. A command meant he was just thinking about getting something done. Remy went home with him.

It had been . . . it had been too long since he'd seen the white pillared house tucked away in the protecting shadows of Bayou Bienvenue. There was nothing in the world quite so beautiful. Streaks of moonlight came slanting through the trees, striping the house in silver, 

and the cool wind made the treetops sway and murmur around it. The lights inside shone gold out into the swamp. It warmed him just to look at them, in anticipation of heat, and food, and welcome that waited within.

He jumped out of the motorboat they'd stolen from the chaos of Blood Moon Bayou and made it secure on one of the mooring pegs of the dock. His father followed him, as graceful as Remy but heavier, solemner: the movement of a middle-aged leader of men, instead of a reckless young scamp of twenty.

The main door of the house flew open. Someone had heard the boat approach. Well over a dozen people came pouring out onto the lawn. "Jean-Luc?" "Guildmaster!" "It's de Guildmaster!" "Jean-Luc's alive!"

One form broke from the others and ran at Remy. Remy caught him and hugged him until he feared for both their ribs.

Henri Robert "Bobby" LeBeau only let go of his brother long enough to kiss him on each cheek—a greeting the LeBeau family had never dropped in all the long generations since they'd come from France. Then Bobby shook him, laughing. "Da's my brother," he observed, hardly able to get the words out around his laughter. "Stays away from home for _years_ just waitin' for his moment to make de biggest entrance in history! Y'okay, Remy?"

"I'm fine," Remy assured him, grinning. He couldn't stop staring at his brother. They'd been raised as twins, which was something of a joke because they looked absolutely nothing alike. Bobby was thin and wiry, with ash-blond hair and gray eyes, as unremarkable in appearance as a thief could wish to be. Remy had never been so glad to see anybody in his whole life. "An'you? Y'okay?"

"Am now that you brought _Père _home. How'd you do it? We've been in here for three days tryin' to work out how to get into dat house to bust him out. And here you just snap him up like somebody left him lyin' on de sidewalk!"

"I had some help," Remy admitted. "But he's out, an'da's what counts."

"_REMY ETIENNE LEBEAU!"_

_"Ah, non," _Remy groaned, mere seconds before Memere seized his jaw in one hand and used the other to slap him across the face five times in rapid succession.

"_Qu'est que tu as pensé, p'tit fils du diable? Sans un seul pensé pour mon pauvre coeur. __Si ta maman saintée était vivante—_"

"Glad t'see you too, Memere," said Remy in _Cadiens_, as clearly as he could while she still had a death grip on his lower jaw. Memere understood English perfectly well, but never spoke it, and it was easier when dealing with her to just switch languages instead of translating back and forth inside his head. Besides, it was probably best not to annoy her right now. She was in a temper.

Memere was the widow of a former Guildmaster, mentor of fully half the thieves in the Guild and adopted parent of Remy and Bobby's late mother. She'd been 'minding,' which 

meant 'ruling,' the LeBeau household since Bobby's birth. She'd been a canny thief and a formidable fighter in her day, and even now in her old age it was a good idea not to fight back if she decided you needed to be slapped. Probably you did, and even if you didn't, struggling would just win you more slaps.

"Hardly a word from you in months and months! Y'coulda been _dead_, y'coulda been locked up, an' what would I say to your poor mother when I meet her in heaven?"

"If I was dead, I prob'ly would'a told her somethin' already."

"You smartin' off t'me, Remy Etienne?"

"No, Memere."

In the background, Bobby was nearly choking himself with suppressed laughter.

"Listen up!" Jean-Luc called, his voice carrying over and silencing the babble. "I t'ank all y'all fo' bein' here fo' my family, an' I'm sorry I spoiled yo' _Mardi Gras_. I ain't hurt, as y'kin see, an' dey's no particular harm done. So until we talk dis matter out an'decide where de balance a'power stands, dey's t'be no retaliation against de Rippers. Now, if y'care t'stay around, we're happy t'feed you, an' if y'wanna go back into de city t'enjoy de rest'a de festivities, or go home t'your families, y'kin go wid my blessing. But I'm feelin' in powerful need of a bath, so you'll excuse me. Dommage, Michel, Fafane, I'm gonna want t'see you firs't'ing in de morning. An' nobody forget t'shake hands wid Remy. It's anybody's guess how long he's gonna stick around."

Remy rolled his eyes at the jab, but cheerfully shook hands with all the Guild thieves that had known him his entire life and were generally glad to see him again. He and Bobby made themselves useful casting off the various boats tide up on the dock until everyone but the actual residents of the house had gone.

As soon as the last boat had vanished into the gloom, Jean-Luc let himself sigh and slump his shoulders. "A day if ever day was one," he announced. "My back's killin' me. I'm gettin' cleaned up. Memere, 's'dey anyt'in' left in dis house t'eat after a week'a worried t'ieves nibblin' on de whole pantry?"

"I find somet'in'. Lan'knows y'need hot food. An' Remy's lookin' skinny as a heron. Y'call yo'self t'ief, y'red-eyed devil? Why don't yeh steal enough t'keep yo'self fed?"

"Yeah, _DB_," Bobby laughed, shoving him. "Stop bein' such a slacker."

Remy shoved him back, laughing as he hadn't laughed in a long time. Bobby retaliated, but Remy ducked and went sprinting for the house, his brother on his heels.

_Home. Home. Home. Home. Home._

* * *

_Home. Home. Home. _

Remy opened his eyes. A single slice of moonlight had slipped through the curtains of his window and fallen across his bed, lying like a scarf over his stomach and Rogue's shoulders.

_Home._

He lifted his hand from hers and took some of her hair, raising it up and letting it slide through his fingers to land back on her cheek. He hadn't meant to wake her, but her eyes fluttered open. She twisted her head back to catch his eye. "Nightmare?" she asked.

"_Non._ Just a dream."

She scooted herself up towards the headboard—she curled up when she slept, and always ended up closer to the foot of the bed than she'd been when she fell asleep. "You wanna talk about it?"

"No." He took hold of her hair again, ran it through his fingers, let it slide away. "Right now, I just wanna look at you."

She smiled, a slow and sleepy smile that was so endearing it made his heart ache inside his chest. "Wierdo."

"No," said Remy again.

_Rogue a'de X-Men, what wouldn't I give t'kiss you right now?_

_What wouldn't I give?_

Remy pushed himself into a half-sitting position, pulling Rogue with him. She was soft and warm and beautiful, his best friend, his home when he had nowhere else to go. And he wanted to kiss her so badly that it almost hurt.

The price of one kiss was half an hour of no powers, about an hour of physical exhaustion, three hours of headache. It was a lot to give for one kiss.

It was worth it.

He drew her up against his chest, so close to him that he could feel her heartbeat. It was slow and languid with sleep, but he could feel it pick up as he looked down at her. Or was it his own heart he was timing? He bent his head down until his face was so close to hers he was breathing her breath, could feel the heat of her skin.

"Remy, what're you doin'?" The words came out of her mouth in gentle puffs of air that he could feel striking his cheek and dissolving like smoke rings. He didn't answer—couldn't even remember what she'd said. The feel of her was capturing all of his attention.

He braced himself for the pain of her absorption and closed his eyes, bending down to her lips.

She flinched away. It was barely a quarter-of-an-inch motion, but it might as well have been a punch in the gut for the jolt it gave him. "No," she told him, the word part plea, part apology, part command.

"I'm not afraid," he whispered, hoping that she couldn't hear the half-lie in his voice. He tried again to kiss her, but she pulled back, sitting up and leaving the side of his body suddenly cold.

"_Ah_ am. Yeh've had a goshawful day and your head's all messed up right now. You're not thinkin' straight. An' gettin' drained would just make everything worse for you. And Ah'm a mess, too. Ah wanna be here for yeh, but Ah can't handle havin' both our problems mixed together in mah head. Ah can't handle it, Remy, an' neither can you."

"You don't get t'pick what I kin handle," Remy insisted, his voice harsher than he meant it to be. He was hurt, and his first reflex was to get angry to cover it.

"Maybe not. But you don't get to pick who gets to touch me. That's my call, and Ah said no."

Remy let her slide away from him and closed his eyes, in disappointment, hurt, and shame. Though he knew all her reasons, knew they had nothing to do with him, the rejection still stung. And worse was the sudden realization of his own conduct. He'd just _pressured_ her, after she'd told him no. He knew better than that kind of dirtbag behavior. He'd have killed anyone else who treated her like that.

He heard the soft rustle of fabric as she gathered up her blanket and slid off the side of his bed. "Ah should go, Ah guess," she murmured, every word choked with embarrassment. "Ah'll see you in the mornin'."

Remy wrenched his eyes open and jumped out of bed, catching up with her just as she pulled open his bedroom door. "Wait, Rogue . . ."

She stopped in the hallway, her bare feet a quarter-inch off the floor, her arms wrapped tightly around the blanket and pillow she'd brought with her. Though she turned back to face him, her eyes were fixed on the ground. "Yeah?"

"I'm . . . I was outta line. Dat was dumb. I'm sorry." The words sounded pathetic, beating futilely against the merciless reality of his ill-considered actions.

Rogue looked up at him. One gloved hand reached up to press against his cheek, as if trying to memorize the shape of it, or hold onto something that was slipping away. Her dark eyes were unspeakably sad. "Oh, gosh, so am Ah."

It took all the willpower Remy had to keep himself from grabbing her hand and refusing to let go, or following her down the hallway to catch her up in his arms. The door of his bedroom was as difficult to close as a door of granite.

Half an hour later, he eased the door open again. From downstairs he could catch occasional soft echoes of Rogue crying in solitude.

_Home_. It was as fragile as a bubble.

* * *

It was four long, strained days before Don called back. The phone rang after dinner, when all the students were sprawled across the living room doing homework in the flickering glow of the fireplace. Gambit was working on one of the couches, and Rogue was on the floor with her books spread across the coffee table—not across the room from one another, but not curled up next to one another either. From time to time their eyes met, and they smiled, shy smiles of apology and embarrassment, of waiting for the awkwardness to be over so they could be friends again.

The phone rang. Jamie was closest. "Xavier Institute, Jamie Madrox speaking." He listened for a minute, then put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Gambit, you're Remy LeBeau, right?"

"_Ouais_. Give it here." Gambit snatched the phone from Jamie and left the room. "_J'suis là._"

"How you holdin' up, Remy?" asked Don on the other end of the line.

"Goin' crazy. You?"

"Not hurt, but kinda the same. Got some word for you."

"Yeah?"

"I've seen your father. He's okay. And all the Boudreax family's just fine. Soon as de storm cleared, your memere an' my memere sat down for a gossip, so I got news on pretty much everybody. Dommage Falcon's got a broken leg and a couple'a cracked ribs, 'cause a tree fell on him, but they think he's gonna pull through. De Pellerain's house looks like a hunk'a chewed cardboard, but dey ain't hurt and dey insured. De McGee's got some floodin', and Benoit's in de hospital 'cause he got zapped wid a downed power line or sometin', but he's comin' out of it. Elisabeth Dugat . . . you remember her? Used t'be Elizabeth Broussard? . . . well, she was four months along and she's miscarried. Takin' it pretty rough. Some'a Delphine's girls got bangs'n'bruises, but de levy repairs by dey house held so dey's okay."

"Good. Da's good."

"But Remy . . ."

Gambit felt his insides freeze, as though his body was trying to stop time to keep him from having to hear what Don was going to say.

"Nobody's seen yo'brother Bobby since de storm hit."

There it was.

"He was out when it made landfall—"

"How 'out'? Outta de city?" If Bobby'd been gone on a job, then he was fine. He was fine.

"_Non_. Downtown someplace. He didn't make it home, an' nobody in de gossip chain has seen hide nor hair of him. Jean-Luc's gettin' everybody he can out lookin', but it's tough work. De city's a mess. Power's out, phones are hardly workin', half de city's too flooded fo'cars t'get through. Lotta people are in shelters all over de city, but it's anybody's guess who's where. And . . . I'm sorry, Remy, but dey's a lotta bodies dat haven't been i.d.ed yet. But he could be just fine. He probably is. No way t'tell where anybody is right now."

Remy could feel himself growing cold. It was shock, he realized calmly, drawing blood in from his limbs to protect his heart and lungs from trauma. A good survival reflex, but it made it very hard to think. Or to feel.

Somebody that sounded like Remy, and who was holding the phone Remy was holding, said, "_Merci, _Don," and hung up, setting the phone gently on the hall table.

_Bobby_.

He found himself in his room, sitting on his bed, with only the vaguest memories of how he'd come to be there. _Bobby._

_There's been a hurricane in New Orleans and nobody knows where my brother is._

_Gotta go home. Gotta go home. Gotta go home._

_Can't, can't, can't, can't, can't._

Words floated disjointedly through his head . . . words like _banished_ and _exiled_, phrases like _shoot you down, _fought for prominence with words like _brother _and _lost_ and _help_ and _save._

_I've got to go._

_I can't go. Never again set foot in New Orleans._

_But I've got . . . to . . . go . . . home._

_But I can't go home._

He kept trying to convince himself of this as he dug a gym bag out from under his bed and started stuffing his training uniform and a few changes of clothes into it. _I can't go home. But they never said I couldn't _pack_ to go home._

_As long as I'm just packing but not going, I should put in a couple extra packs of cards. They could be handy if I were going. Which I'm not._

In went the cards, still in their plastic wrapped-boxes. In went his contact lens case and eye paint, his spare cash, a half pack of crumpled cigarettes that had been riding around in his pocket for a week.

Any more and it probably wouldn't fit in the seat of his motorcycle. He zipped the bag closed.

He would have walked straight downstairs and out to the garage if he hadn't clumsily run into something that wouldn't move, which turned out to be Rogue. She seemed to be talking to him. No, shouting at him.

"Remy, look at me! You know you can't go! What, are you crazy? Put the bag down and tell me what you think you're doin'! Remy!"

He wouldn't have stopped for her, except that she wasn't giving him much choice. It would have taken a force five times stronger than Remy to make her let go of his shoulders or move an inch from where she stood.

"Just talk to me! Please! Tell me what's goin' on!"

"I think we'd all like to know that, Gambit," said the Professor.

Gambit came back to himself. Something about the Professor's voice did that to people: made them focus in a way that nothing else really could. It wasn't a telepathy thing, Gambit knew: he would have been immune to it. It was just part of Xavier's personality.

He found that he was standing in the hallway again, almost exactly where he'd been standing when he'd taken Don's call. Logan, Jean, and Professor Xavier stood staring him down, while Rogue refused to release her grip.

"In accordance wid de terms of our contract, Professor," said Gambit, his voice so strained it was barely comprehensible, "you got no right t'stop me walkin' out dat door. You really wanna make me fight my way outta dis house?"

"You're right," Xavier agreed. "I have no right to make you stay against your will. However, under the terms of that same contract, if you leave, I am under no obligation to let you come back."

This stopped him.

_Zut_. Apparently he wasn't as good at bulletproof contracts as he thought he was. He glared narrowly at Professor Xavier.

"I'm sorry, Gambit. I don't mean to force your hand. But I would like to know what has happened, and why Rogue is so upset about it. And I'd like to offer you the assistance to which you are entitled as a member of this team. You can go when you wish, but I ask you, as a friend, to sit down and talk about it first."

Gambit thought of flooded, rain-soaked New Orleans, of the pale and bloated face-down bodies in the canals. Then he thought of being exiled from the Institute like he'd been exiled from the white pillared house, and nodded his acquiescence. Rogue let go of him. Professor Xavier led the way into his office, and Logan shut the door behind them.

"My brother's missin'," said Gambit, as soon as he heard the latch engage. "I gotta go find him."

"I certainly understand that," said Professor Xavier. "What I do not understand is why Rogue is so reluctant to let you go. Rogue, what do you know that we do not?"

Rogue slipped her hand into Gambit's and hung on tightly. Her jaw was clamped shut, as though she were worried Logan were going to pry it open to extract the answer to Xavier's question. She didn't say a word.

Gambit squeezed her hand back, grateful for her faithfulness, and pulled her to the couch. Jean and Logan stayed standing, one on either side of the door. Probably they didn't mean to look like guards . . . at least Jean probably didn't . . . but the impression was nevertheless unsettling.

"N'Awlins is dangerous for me," Gambit offered, after the long silence confirmed that Rogue was not going to answer the question and Xavier was not going to move on without a response from somebody. "I got enemies dere. Powerful ones. Shoot-on-sight kinda enemies."

"But you think you can avoid them, at least long enough to find your brother and escape the city safely?" asked Xavier.

Gambit looked at Rogue. There was a flush of stress in her cheeks, and her fingers were digging into the back of his hand. "No, sir. But mebbe long enough t'find my brother."

Xavier nodded, apparently unworried by the news that Gambit was running out the door on a suicide mission. "I'd like to propose an alternate plan, if I may. You take a strike team with you to New Orleans. Take the jet and some supplies—it's likely they're needed, and it'll be easier to land as an aid transport than simply as a private airplane. With backup and the means for a quick escape, you'll be much more likely to make it out of New Orleans alive, and having accomplished what you went to accomplish."

"De situation's delicate, sir. Marchin' in wid guns blazin' is just gonna get everybody killed."

"I appreciate that. You're the best judge of what the situation requires, so you'd be in charge."

That was a big offering. Gambit knew it. He was the newest of the X-Men, without the years of shared experience that gave Logan, Storm, and Scott the privilege of leading strike teams. It was a huge show of faith in him.

"Who were you plannin' on sendin'?"

"Rogue, to start with."

"_Non._"

"You're _not _leavin' me behind," Rogue told him.

Gambit didn't look at her, continuing instead to address himself to Professor Xavier. "She's known in N'Awlins. It's more dangerous fo'her den fo'anybody else."

"Bite me," said Rogue.

"You can't seriously consider lettin' her leave Bayville, Professor. Not wid Mystique out dere huntin' her. She's gotta stay at de Institute, where she safe."

"We haven't seen anything of Mystique since Rogue and Kurt saw her in town. We don't have any reason to believe she's still in the area. But as a precaution, we'll send Logan, too. He'll be able to spot Mystique if she makes a move, and his powers will be useful in finding your brother. Add Jean, as a telepathic contact point in case communication goes down again, and you have your team."

Gambit glanced around the room. Jean and Logan looked back at him, both calm and determined. The three that the Professor had chosen were perhaps the three members of the household who had the most faith in Gambit's judgment and good intentions. He had a moment's concern about bringing Jean, well-born New England lady that she was, into the dark and grimy New Orleans underworld, but he couldn't deny the usefulness of a practiced telepath for the task at hand. Logan, of course, could take care of himself.

Rogue still looked frightened, but there was no doubting the resolve in her face. They'd have to telepathically sedate her to keep her from following him.

Gambit covered the hand that was clinging to his. "If you got hurt helpin' me, _chère_ . . ." he murmured, daring to use her nickname for the first time in days.

"Ah'm not afraid," said Rogue. "Y'always come an'save me, Remy . . . my turn now. Ah'll watch your back. Don't make me stay behind. Please." Her voice was now so low that probably even Professor Xavier was having trouble hearing her.

Gambit sighed. A thousand visions of her death, and his own, danced across his mind. New Orleans. He could sooner walk into Hell.

"Make me one promise."

"What?"

"If dey's trouble— bad trouble, more'n we kin handle—an' I tell you t'go, you fly away home and you never look back."

Rogue looked into his face for a long second, then leaned against him and rubbed her face against his chest. Gambit wrapped his arms around her—he couldn't help but do so, when she did that. "Promise," he ordered, squeezing her to emphasize his point. "No promise, no deal."

He felt her nod.

He looked up and met Professor Xavier's eyes. "Professor, it seems we have us an accord."

* * *

_Sacré: _Holy; an oath.

_Memère_ is the Cajun word for 'Grandma,' but it's also generally used to be an older woman whom you respect.

Memère's rant translates as follows:

"What were you thinking, little devil-child? Without a single thought for my poor heart. If your sainted mother were alive—"

_J'suis là: _I'm here.

_Zut:_ Dang it.


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

Chapter 7

* * *

"That's the last of it," Logan announced, slamming closed the hatch to the cargo hold in the belly of the X-Jet. "We're loaded about as heavy as we can go. Time to get out of here. All aboard if you're comin'."

Gambit was up the loading ramp almost before he'd finished speaking. Though he knew that acquiring a planeload of humanitarian supplies overnight was a miracle, he'd still been going crazy with impatience. Eighteen hours since Don's call. Five days since anyone had seen Bobby. Three-hour flight to New Orleans, with darkness chasing them across the country.

Rogue was right behind him, her gear bag slung over her shoulder. She dropped the burden in a corner of the cabin and swooped back out into the hangar. "Jean, come on . . . oh."

Jean was kissing Scott good-bye. Rogue flushed pink and retreated into the plane again. "Just a minute."

Logan had no such delicacy. "Red, quit eatin' his face and get in here," he yelled, taking the pilot's seat and starting up the X-Jet's massive engines.

Jean came sprinting up the ramp. "I'm here; I'm sorry."

"Good luck, guys!" Scott called. "Don't forget to check in."

"Cross my heart," Jean promised him. She pressed the button that raised the ramp. "I love you!"

Scott grinned the bewildered grin that generally crossed his face whenever Jean told him that. "Hey, Gambit!"

"_Ouais?_" Gambit called over the creak and hiss of the machinery.

"Jean and Rogue . . ."

Gambit chuckled. "I'll mind 'em, Fearless Leader. _Ne t'inquiète pas._"

The door clamped shut.

Storm's voice crackled through on the intercom. "You are clear to take off, Logan. Good luck."

"You, too, 'Ro." Logan flipped some switches and took a grip on the steering yoke. "Sit down and buckle up, guys."

Jean took the copilot's seat, fastening the harness around her body. Gambit and Rogue took the seats just behind. "Clear," Rogue called.

The roar of the engines filled the hangar. The jet inched forward, then shot like a bullet out its launch tunnel, pressing everybody into their seats and giving them a solid shake before they were airborne, sailing free over the Atlantic Ocean. Logan pulled the jet up and to the right, gaining altitude every second as they veered towards New Orleans.

Gambit closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Okay, I gotta go take care'a some stuff. Somebody tell me if we get shot at." He unbuckled his harness and headed for the tiny bathroom at the back of the plane.

"You planning on having us get shot at?" asked Logan.

"Not while we in de air, no."

* * *

When Gambit emerged from the bathroom an hour later, Rogue glanced over her shoulder at him and squeaked. She couldn't help it. He'd gone into the bathroom with long red hair, red-and-black eyes, and a burgundy-and-gray training uniform. He came out with short, dark brown hair, brown-and-white eyes, jeans, a plain white t-shirt, a denim jacket, and sneakers. "Your _hair!_"

"Like it?" asked Gambit, scrubbing a hand through the still-wet mess of short brown hair on his head.

Rogue approached him warily, not quite able to accept that he was the same person she'd seen an hour ago. He grinned at her, and the grin was his own. "Dunno if y'missed it, but I was fishin' fo'a compliment."

Rogue reached up and touched his hair, ready to pull back if it burned her or something.

"It'll grow back," Gambit assured her. "But if de wrong people down dere recognize me, de game's up. So tell me how it worked. Would y'recognize me, if y'weren't lookin' for me?"

Rogue's touch dropped to his face. "What'd you do to yourself? Botox?"

Gambit stuck a finger into the corner of his mouth and pulled his cheek away from his jaw, displaying something white stuffed inside. "Jus' paddin', t'change de face shape. Old trick, an' it tastes foul, but it messes wid how people see you. An' before y'ask, de eyes are jus' paint an' contacts. It'll all wash out."

"Ah . . ." Rogue surveyed him once more, trying to sort out the strangeness of his appearance. "Ah think Ah miss you already," she admitted, feeling rather ashamed for being so shallow.

"I promise I'll write."

Rogue smiled. "You better."

"An _you_ better do somethin' about you'self. De streaks are memorable. De Rippers could recognize you."

"Easy." Rogue bent forward, tossing her hair over her head so it hung straight down. She drew a new part in it with her thumb, way over towards the left side of her forehead, then flipped back up. "There we go. Invisible."

"_Bien_. Now go change y'clothes, change y'makeup, change anything y'can. I don't want any chance a'dem spottin' you."

"What'd'you mean, change? Into what?"

"Into somethin' a Jean's."

"Ah am _not_ wearin' Jean's clothes."

"What's wrong with my clothes?" asked Jean, turning around in her seat with an annoyed glare.

"They're _pastel_," Rogue explained. "Which is fine, if you're you, but Ah'm not."

"Y'are now, _chère_." Gambit turned her to face Jean and gave her a shove. "Jean Gray, meet Jean Gray 2. Make it happen."

"You gotta be kiddin' me," Rogue protested. "No way. You talked me into stealin' shoes and takin' French and ridin' on motorcycles, but you are _not_ dressin' me up like a preppie!"

"I am _not_ . . ." Jean started to protest, but she thought better of it. "Okay, fair enough. I'm a preppie. But Gambit's right, Rogue. This is about keeping all of us safe. I promise I'll never tell anybody you wore pastels." She rose to her feet and went to Rogue, carefully staying well outside her personal space. "Come on. It'll be completely painless. Cross my heart."

Outnumbered, and receiving no backup from Logan, who was very deliberately focusing on flying the plane, Rogue gave in. She followed Jean into the cargo compartment at the back of the plane, feeling like a prisoner being led to her execution.

* * *

Logan turned in his chair as soon as the door had closed behind Jean and Rogue. "You really that worried about her getting spotted?"

Gambit shrugged, taking the chair Jean had vacated. "Kinda. I also kinda wanted to see what she looks like in pink."

Logan chuckled. "Mad is what she's gonna look like. But hey, if living dangerously's your thing . . ."

Gambit grinned and leaned back in his chair. Grinning felt good. He was still worried, but having friends made worry easier to bear. Though danger loomed, he was glad not to be alone.

"So while we're on the subject," Logan continued, "Now we're well outta the house, you going to explain what we're flying into?"

Gambit spent a long moment watching the clouds sail by underneath them, collecting his thoughts. "Well, first thing's de wreck of a hurricane. Panicked people, busted infrastructure, looting, filth, chaos. You know de drill."

"Seen it before, yeah."

"Den dey's de politics. De kid we lookin' for is Henri Robert LeBeau, _dites_ Bobby, only son an' heir of Jean-Luc LeBeau, one a'de most powerful criminal overlords on de planet."

"Thought you said he was your brother."

"It's a courtesy title. I was adopted, now I'm disowned, he's an only child, _fin d'histoire._ Anyway, Bobby's an important player in crime politics. A lotta people would like it if he never got home."

"So in addition to the problems of trying to find somebody I've never smelled, who's spent his entire life learning how not to be found, in a city that's a wreck, we've gotta do it with every criminal in the county trying to stop us."

"Parish. Dey's parishes in Louisiana, not counties."

"Oh, thanks. And let's just add, for fun, that if anybody recognizes you, they'll kill you. And if anybody recognizes Rogue, they'll remember she was with you, and find you and kill you. Probably her, too."

"Prob'ly you an' Jean, too. Lotta dese people ain't too fussy about who dey kill."

"You're sure one for makin' friends, huh?"

"_Mon gar, tu n'as aucune idée._"

"And I'm guessing what you did to tick these people off is the question I shouldn't be asking."

Gambit raised an eyebrow at Logan. "We don'all have de luxury of forgettin' where we come from."

* * *

Rogue had to work very hard to not make snippy comments at Jean. _This ain't her fault,_ she reminded herself. _But even so, does she have to be enjoying this so much?_

"Your eyes are really good at picking up the colors around them," Jean was saying, poking through the bag of makeup she'd brought with her. "They usually look gray because you usually wear gray eyeshadow. But if we mix the colors up . . . here we go, try this. Use the light one for a base and the darker stuff along your lash line."

"Ah _know_ how tuh put eyeshadow on," Rogue snapped, before biting her tongue again. Reluctantly, she opened the makeup compact and examined her face in the little mirror. "So we're turnin' my eyes green?"

"It's either that or pink, and I really don't want to push you that far. But green eyes will change the whole color scheme of your face, and they'll look great with that shirt."

Rogue spared a glance for the yellow three-quarter-sleeve wraparound and khaki cargos she'd been coerced into, and tried not to think about what was being done to her hair. "There's somethin' really wrong about dyin' my eyes to match your shirt."

"Very Wizard of Oz," said Jean, now examining lipsticks.

"Very freaky-Mystiquey."

"If she gets to play tricks, then so do we. Which one?" She presented two coral-pink lipsticks for Rogue's perusal.

"You don't have anything darker?"

"That would defeat the purpose. Pick your poison."

"Famous last words," Rogue muttered, selecting the slightly darker of the two.

Ten minutes later, she was transformed to Jean's satisfaction. "If you even _think_ about takin' a picture, Ah will kill you and enjoy it," she promised, turning away from the thankfully small mirror.

"Cross my heart."

Figuring it was better to get this over with, Rogue headed back to the cockpit and dropped into the chair behind Gambit. Logan gave her one glance, offered a grunt of moderate approval, and went back to the controls.

Gambit pivoted in his chair, leaning back with his arms folded, and studied her. Rogue ducked her head, wishing she still had her streaks to hide behind. But they were pinned securely under the rest of her hair, which was now fixed well away from her face in a mess of loose red curls. Her hair had always curled naturally, but she'd spent the last eight or so years of her life fighting to keep it straight. The makeup job narrowed her face and raised her cheekbones, brightening and emphasizing her now-almost-green eyes. The warm, soft colors she was wearing made her skin look less pale, and the loose cargo pants narrowed her exposed waist.

She scowled as his inspection drew out long beyond the point of awkwardness. "Well?"

Gambit met her eyes and smiled. "I like de shoes."

Rogue glanced down at her feet. She was wearing pale blue slip-on sneakers, stained with dirt. One of them had a tear in the side.

Her defensiveness and discomfort melted away almost at once as a warm wave of happiness rose up inside her. He'd remembered her shoes. "Thanks."

"Where are we?" asked Jean, leaning on the back of Logan's chair to examine the controls over his shoulder.

"We've got about another hour," said Logan. "Which gives us just enough time for a plan of attack. What're we doing with ourselves once we land?"

"Before that, where do we land?" asked Jean. "We'll probably want somewhere the plane can stay out of sight."

"No," said Logan. "We want a runway. We're flying heavy, and until we get the cargo unloaded we really shouldn't be trying vertical takeoffs. We can do it, but it'll eat the fuel."

"National Guard's cleared one runway at de airport t'bring in gear an' supplies," Gambit offered. "Prob'ly de best place t'start gettin' news. Dey'll know where de refugee camps are, what hospitals are runnin', where people are gettin' sent. And dey need what we bringin'."

"And then what?" asked Jean. "We just start combing the camps and hospitals until we find him?"

"If he's lost, dat's where he'll turn up." Gambit allowed.

"But you think he's not lost," Logan put in for him.

Gambit shrugged. "In a mess like a hurricane, dey's a lotta confusion. Easy t'make someone disappear, if y'need 'em too. And dey's a number a people in N'Awlins who would like it if Bobby LeBeau disappeared."

"So how do we go at this, then?" asked Jean.

Gambit glanced around at the three members of his team. "We split it up," he decided. "Two in de front door, two in de back. Logan, you an' Jean are de ones good at pickin' somebody out of a crowd, so you get de front door. Anywere masses a'people are congregatin'. Sort through de mess an' see if he got lost in de shuffle."

"We've never seen him before," Logan pointed out.

"I kin get you a scent."

"What about me?" asked Jean. "Without a psychic impression, I don't know your brother from William of Orange."

Gambit considered the problem. "Would a memory work?"

"It'd be better than nothing, but you're the only one of us who has a memory of him, and I can't—oh, my gosh!"

She jumped back so fast that she hit the side of the plane.

"_Desolé!_" cried Gambit, wincing. "Shoulda warned yeh."

"What happened?" Logan demanded.

Jean rubbed her forehead. "He let down his psychic block. It was like he popped out at me from nowhere. Scared me to death."

"Sorry," said Gambit again.

"It's okay. Just . . . whew! Halloween isn't for another eight months, you know." Jean took a deep breath. "Is this him? I've got a guy your same height, ash-blond, long scar right here?" She drew a line across the left side of her neck, under her ear.

Gambit nodded. "Dat's him."

"Well, it's not ideal, but if I get near him, I'll know him. And while Logan and I are wandering New Orleans, what about you and Rogue?"

"Back door. I still got some friends in N'Awlins, who'll know if trouble's up. Gonna make some contacts, ask around. If somebody's got Bobby, den dey ain't keepin' it secret fo'long."

"Good plan, except for one big glaring problem," said Logan. "I'm on this cruise to watch Rogue's back. Jean and I can spot Mystique; you two can't."

"Long's I don't take my eye off Rogue, it ain't gonna be a problem."

"Big risk." Logan looked over at Rogue, who was trying to make up for the bright colors she was wearing by being very still and quiet. "You okay with this, Stripes?"

"Ah came t'help Gambit. Ah don't leave him, he don't leave me, we're fine." Seeing Logan's raised eyebrow, Rogue insisted, "Don't worry about me! Ah kin handle myself. Odds are a million to one that Mystique's gonna follow us here, so let's just focus on Remy and Bobby right now."

"For all we know, Mystique could be up to her ears in this."

"Mystique can't make hurricanes."

"She can't make other people shapeshift, either, and look how well _that_ turned out."

"You're a conspiracy freak."

"Maybe, but if I wasn't, everybody in this plane woulda been dead a long time ago." He pointed a finger in Rogue's face. "Not out of his sight." He turned the finger to Gambit. "Not out of hers. Not for a second."

Rogue nodded. "Fair enough."

* * *

"Armstrong Unicom, Blackbird 5586X-Ray."

"Blackbird, go ahead."

"We're on route from the Xavier Institute, Bayville, New York, carrying emergency supplies for the relief effort. Requesting clearance to land."

"Clearance denied, Blackbird. We got no room on this runway. It's like a parking lot down here."

"Armstrong, I bet. We're VTOL-equipped. Just give us a footprint."

There was a long pause on the other end. "Blackbird, I think we can make some room for you. Skim the runway and we'll bring you in."

"Roger that, Armstrong. Much obliged."

Logan could, if occasion ever called for it, land the X-Jet in a standard-issue shoebox. The space that the crew cleared for them at Armstrong International proved to be ample.

The team descended the ramp together, Logan in the lead, the girls on either side of him, Gambit hanging ever so slightly back. A harried-looking lieutenant met them on the tarmac. "Nice flying," he offered, by way of greeting.

"Thanks," offered Logan, by way of returning it.

"We brought everything we could carry," Jean offered. "It's mostly basic things, like flour and rice, but there are first-aid kits and cleaning supplies, too. Here's the inventory." She handed over a packet of papers.

The lieutenant glanced through it. "That's quite a list. This is going to be a big help to us. Thank you. I'll see what I can do about finding some personnel to unload your plane. We're spread a little thin at the moment."

"Uh-huh." Logan considered for a minute. "Lieutenant, what are your feelings on mutants?"

"Mutants? Never met one, so I guess I can say I never met one I didn't like. Why?"

"Well, we could save your people some time, if you didn't mind us showin' off just a little."

"Mister, the way things are, if Adolf Hitler showed up here and offered to haul boxes around, I'd shake his hand."

"Then just tell us where you want 'em."

Jean and Rogue took care of the box-hauling. They attracted some attention. This left Logan, who otherwise would have been rather an attention-attracting himself, free to make the lieutenant talk. Gambit listened in, but stayed quiet—the second he opened his mouth, his accent would attract attention of its own.

"Wow," observed the lieutenant, raising an appreciative eyebrow as he watch Rogue come flying out of the plane carrying a fifty-pound bag of rice in each hand.

"Yeah, they're good girls," Logan agreed. "So how's it been down here?"

"Well, all we can say for it is that it's not as bad as Katrina. It was actually quite a mild storm. But the infrastructure just wasn't ready to handle it. Some of the things the news are calling 'levy breaches' are just places where water ran through the construction scaffolding and out into the street."

"Got a lot of flooding, then?"

"A fair amount, yeah. As soon as we've got the breaches sandbagged we can re-open the canals and get the pumps going to drain the water off. But that's still looking like a couple weeks' work."

"What damage did the flooding do? How many are displaced?"

"Best guess, about twenty thousand. Could have been worse. Most of them are gathering at the Superdome, and that's where the relief effort is centered. But there are pockets of people all over the city, in schools and churches and community centers. The convention center, too. It's making it hard to get an accurate count."

"We had some friends down here. We haven't heard anything from them since the storm hit. Any guesses where we could start looking for 'em?"

"Well, the last thing we need is a swarm of civilians stumbling all over the city looking for their loved ones. We're collecting names of the displaced and getting radios and phones in so people can contact their families. If you want to stay and help with the cleanup, you're welcome, but if all you're interested in is finding your friends, the best thing to do is go home and wait for them to call you."

"And if they aren't in a condition to be making phone calls?"

"Then _we'll_ be calling you."

Logan nodded. "Well, much as we'd love to hang out, we have to get the plane back to New York. Jean! How's it coming?"

"Just a few more," announced Jean. The box she was levitating dipped a little as her concentration wavered, but she caught it before it hit the ground.

"We'll get out of your hair, then," said Logan. "Thanks for the info."

* * *

_Ne t'inquiète pas:_ Don't worry.

_Dites_: called; known as.

_fin d'histoire: _end of story.

_Mon gar, tu n'as aucune idée _: Dude, you have no idea.


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

Chapter 8

* * *

The X-Jet did not go back to New York. It touched down in a bayou out to the northwest of the city, at a site of Gambit's choosing.

The darkness of late evening made it almost impossible for Logan to see where he was landing, so Rogue got to hop out and guide the plane down. She loved playing outside the X-Jet; she felt like a pilot fish swimming in the wake of a shark. The engines made all kinds of fun air currents for her to maneuver in.

"I see the spot," she announced into her earpiece. "Bring her forward a little bit. Okay, that's good. Now a little to the left—no, that's too far."

"Hurry it up, Stripes," Logan growled in her ear. "We're burnin' fuel here."

Rogue swung underneath the belly of the plane and braced her shoulders against it, like Atlas holding up the world. "So kill the engines. I gotcha. Easier this way anyway."

"You sure?"

"No problem."

With a vast, whirring sigh, the engines died. Rogue felt the weight of the plane sag down onto her shoulders. She pressed upward to steady it, then eased herself down, letting the wheels come to rest in the soft, wet, squelchy ground.

She slid out from under the plane and set herself down while the loading hatch hissed open. The earth beneath her shoes squished unpleasantly. Rogue winced and lifted herself up an inch or so. This place might be Gambit's home, but it was still a creepy, gloomy, stinking, damp, cold, miserable swamp. She wouldn't live here even if paid a million dollars to do so.

As soon as Gambit walked out of the plane, she felt ashamed for the thought. He was smiling.

It wasn't his usual I'm-trouble-and-I-know-it smile. It was the sort of smile that came onto his face sometimes when he was alone with her, an expression of deep contentment and quiet joy mingled with sadness.

Rogue stared at him. She couldn't help it.

She'd forgotten how well he fit here. In New York, she'd grown used to his strangeness, the peculiarity of his serpentine grace in a straight-line, right-angle world. But here the trees, the shadows, _everything _curved and twisted to mirror him. She could half-imagine him melting into the bayou like a whisper of wind, swallowed up in the gray-green darkness and happy to be so. He _belonged_ here. He _was_ here.

She wanted to grab onto him with both hands and hang on like death itself, lest he vanish before her eyes.

"It's too late to do anything tonight," said Logan. Rogue jumped. "We'd better get some sleep and be ready to move when the sun comes up."

Jean shivered. "This place gives me the creeps, guys."

"No need," Gambit told her. "Dis here's de safe end'a town. Fo'us, anyway. Everybody who might wanna cause us trouble is down toward de coast. Speakin' a which." He turned to the southeast, his eyes piercing the darkness in ways that Rogue's couldn't. "Dey's one t'ing gotta be done t'night. Gotta get a scent for Logan."

"And where're you plannin' on finding it?" asked Logan, his arms crossed and his eyes suspicious.

"Bobby's room. Just gonna sneak home and grab a sock or somethin'. Five-year-old's heist. Be back in an hour. Rogue, wanna give me a lift?"

Rogue nodded. In her head, she started humming the national anthem, just in case Jean was poking around in there. "Let's go."

Gambit took hold of her around the shoulders, and she slipped her arm around his waist to support him. She didn't have to ask Logan to wait up for them; she knew he would.

* * *

As soon as they were well away from the plane, flying just above the canopy to keep from being spotted by either anyone on the ground or anyone in the air, Rogue demanded, "Isn't your house like the most dangerous place in the world for you?"

"Second-most," Gambit corrected. "Yeah. But Logan's gotta have a scent."

"Why didn't you tell them?"

"Because I'm gonna have enough trouble convincin' _you_ t'let me go in there alone."

"Don't even _think_ about it."

"Bear right. We don't wanna go straight over de city."

Rogue obediently banked right. The Mississippi river delta was visible in the distance, a heavy green mass with strings of moonlight-silver water snaking through it.

"Listen very carefully t'me, Rogue. De LeBeau house is home to de best t'ieves in de world. Dey trained me my whole life. Nobody's lookin' for me, so mebbe I got a chance t'get in, but it's gonna take all de skill I got. You ain't no t'ief. Wid'out ten years trainin', you get us both caught before y'kin blink. You gotta trust me on dis. You _can't come_."

Rogue pressed her lips together in frustration. With her new powers, there was nowhere in the world that was closed to her, on earth or in the sky. To follow Remy across the country and then be told she had to wait out the most dangerous part was galling. But she couldn't deny he had a point. Rogue was one of the X-Men. Subtlety wasn't exactly their thing.

"If you need me," she told him, "you yell. Ah'll bust the house open to get you out if Ah have to."

Remy chuckled. "_Chère, _if I get caught, won't be no time t'yell. My father'll just put a bullet in my head and have done wid it. At least, I hope so."

Rogue stared at him.

"It's a million times better dan bein' turned over to de Rippers," he explained. "Dey professionals."

"Ah thought they were another thief gang."

"No way. No room fo'two T'ieves' Guilds in dis town. Rippers are de Assassin's Guild. Killin's dey business. Dey good at it. Famous for real quiet hits, t'ings dat look like accidents or natural causes, but when de kill's personal dey take dey time an' get real creative." He pointed to a point down below them, indistinguishable from the rest of the tree canopy as far as Rogue could tell. "Set down right dere."

Rogue slowed their forward speed and let gravity drag gently on her body, easing the pair of them to the ground. Gambit let go of her and glanced around to get his bearings, his eyes free of their disguise and gleaming like embers in the darkness.

"Remy," she admitted, "Ah don't think Ah kin let you go in there."

Remy gave her a sympathetic smile. "Told y'it was dangerous, _chère_."

"Can't we just decide it's _too_ dangerous, and go home?"

"If it was Kurt who was lost, would you?"

Rogue didn't have an answer for that.

He stripped off his jacket and handed it to her. "Hang ont'dat. Gonna have t'swim part of de way, an' if I make it back I'm gonna be cold. Stay here an' keep quiet 'till I get back. If I'm not back in an hour . . ." He shrugged. "Go home."

Rogue stared at him. Then she dropped the jacket, wrapped one arm around his back, planted her hand across his mouth, and kissed the back of her hand.

She withdrew almost at once, her heart pounding in her chest, berating herself. What a stupid, stupid, stupid thing to do! Even a _real_ kiss good-bye would have been silly, and such a pathetic excuse for a kiss was a million times worse. Now he'd _have_ to die in there, because there was no way she was facing him again after tonight.

But Remy grinned at her. He caught her hand and brought it back to where it had been, planting a kiss on the soft cotton of the glove where it covered her palm. "Not a sound," he warned, releasing his hold on her. Then he slipped into the darkness and disappeared.

* * *

The frogs and crickets were singing in the shadows, making a low, chattering murmur all around him. The sound was soothing. That was good: Remy knew the dangers of going into a job all tensed up. And he'd never been more tense in his life.

He was rusty, and he knew it. It had been more than six months since he'd pulled a job—other than stealing bits of food from Storm, who had good reflexes and rarely let him get away with it. His promise to Professor Xavier had kept him from so much as pocketing a pack of gum. He'd comforted himself with the assurance that he was a good thief . . . a prodigy thief, in many ways . . . and surely his natural talent would pull him through anything he might have to face in the future. Now he wasn't so sure.

_Practice_, Jean-Luc had ordered him, a million times across his childhood. _Don'you boys get complacent. Get out an'practice, or you gonna choke when it counts._ Of course, he'd also said _don't get emotionally involved in a pinch_, which was one bit of advice Remy had to ignore tonight. Sure, he was emotionally involved. But there was no other thief to take the job. Just him, against the guildmaster of New Orleans.

_Relax. Calm down. You're Remy LeBeau, remember? You busted the Louvre with no backup and no budget. This is your own house. You could do this with your eyes closed._

He ducked under a low-hanging branch and saw the house for the first time since his banishment.

It was still standing. Although the ground around it was strewn with branches, leaves, and other debris, the house itself was whole. The windows were boarded up to protect the glass panes, and there were a thousand scratches in the white paint. The water level had risen until the murky bayou was scarcely ten feet from the front door, and the dock was completely underwater, but the family's boat was still in one piece, tethered to one of the porch pillars. To the untrained eye, it would have looked ghostly, abandoned, but Gambit could see his father's hand in every detail of the battered house. He'd weathered the storm, just as Remy had hoped he would.

He sat down on the damp ground and stripped off his clothes. He could easily swim the distance fully dressed, but if he entered the house dripping wet he'd leave a trail that any idiot could recognize. Holding his clothes and shoes in a bundle over his head, he slipped into the icy black water and silently swam for the house.

He tossed his clothes onto the bank and scrambled up after them, alligator-like. Shivering a little in the night air—though not half as much as he had throughout the mind-blowingly cold New York winter—he pulled the dry garments back on. No footprints. And if he died tonight, he was gonna die dressed.

There were coat hooks just inside the kitchen door. If he was lucky, one of Bobby's coats would be hanging there. He would have preferred to take something less conspicuous, like a sock or a bottom-of-the-drawer t-shirt, but Bobby's dresser was upstairs in his room, and his room was next to Jean-Luc's. Too risky.

He crept up to the house and had at the lock to the kitchen door. It was a good lock, as one would expect on a professional thief's house, but Remy had trained on it when he was six years old. There was a soft click as the tumblers fitted into place, and he eased the door open, drawing the screen door closed behind him.

The kitchen looked just as it had the day he'd left. There was hardly any light, of course, but Remy couldn't have cared less about that. The old, smooth-worn table still stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by five chairs, one for each of member of the family . . . at least, the family that had been. The air was saturated with the scents of a dozen familiar spices, calling back a thousand memories of "getting underfoot" in this room while the adults tried to cook, or sitting here in the late evening talking with his family and his friends. Remy snapped himself out of his nostalgia and turned to the coat hooks.

There was only one coat there. It belonged to Jean-Luc.

Remy thought a word that Rogue would not have understood but would have smacked him for anyway. He'd have to get upstairs . . . somehow.

Somebody drew in a startled breath.

Remy froze, then wheeled.

His memere was standing in the door from the hall.

Remy's heart stopped beating, then started again at triple speed. Was it too dark for her to have seen him? Yes, much too dark. She wasn't looking at him. What was she looking at?

Remy followed her eyeline. She was looking at the gleaming silver refrigerator, the surface of which reflected two bright red lights—his eyes. Oh, no.

Remy slammed his eyes shut, then opened them again when he realized that closing them wasn't going to do any good. She already knew he was here. The game was up, and he hadn't even been playing five minutes. She would kill him. Not "getting in at four in the morning drunk on stolen beer" kill him . . . really kill him. It was that or lose the truce between the guilds that his banishment had established. It was that or all-out war in New Orleans.

She was still looking at the refrigerator.

Could he make it through the door before she moved? Would it matter? He'd violated the terms of his banishment . . . any member of the thieves' guild who saw him here had to tell the Assassins, and they had the right to hunt him down no matter where he went. Maybe if he left Rogue behind and headed straight for Mexico . . .

"_Sucrier_," said Memere.

Remy was so surprised that he stopped panicking for a second. _Sucrier?_ Sugar bowl? Memere had called him a lot of weird names in his life, but _Sucrier_ was not among them. He must have misunderstood.

"_Sucrier_," said Memere again, her voice a low and steady murmur of _Cadiens_. "What'choo doin' out here, love? Gonna get y'self broke."

She wasn't looking at the refrigerator anymore. She was looking at the table, her warm brown eyes fixed upon something sitting right in the middle. The sugar bowl. It had been his mother's, white china with a pattern of red poppies painted onto it. Its lid was sitting on the table next to it, and the little silver sugar spoon stuck out of it.

"I sure do love you, little _sucrier_, but you get yo'self put away before somebody knocks you off de table. Go 'long now."

And then, in a jolt of comprehension and relief, Remy got it.

Memere hadn't actually seen him—just his reflection. If she didn't look at him, and didn't speak to him, then she didn't have to tell anybody anything. She hadn't seen him since his wedding day, true as God. She was protecting him, as only a canny and experienced thief could have done. If he could have, he would have kissed her.

"I come t'help look for Bobby," he whispered, his own voice sounding intolerably loud in the silence of the kitchen, which was absolute since the power was still out.

"De Guildmaster's half outta his mind lookin' for his firstborn son, little _sucrier_," said Memere, still to the sugar bowl. "Only thing lettin' him sleep at night is knowin' dat his _diable blanc_ is far away safe."

"I brought help. We got ways. But I need somethin'a his—somethin' dat smells like him."

Memere sighed. "Never could keep yo'lid on you." She retreated from the kitchen, her gait a slow shuffle that showed just how much she had aged since he'd last seen her. He heard her shuffle across the house, then come back, holding a handful of fabric—one of Bobby's dress shirts, light blue, wrinkled as all Bobby's shirts were after he wore them and then dropped them on the floor to be kicked around for a few days. She set it on the table and backed away. "I wish you wasn't here, _sucrier_. Dangerous place fo'somethin' so breakable."

"I always glue back t'gether, Memere."

She turned her back on the table. Remy snuck forward and grabbed the shirt, as lightly and eagerly as though it were some precious treasure buried in the strongest vault of the most powerful bank in the world. Bobby's shirt. Maybe the key to finding him and bringing him safely home.

"God watch over our Remy t'night," said Memere to the darkness. "God in Heaven keep him safe."

Remy snorted as he wadded the shirt up in the palm of his hand. "Yo'Remy tends t'his own troubles. God kin just do de same." He retreated to the door, pulling it open and pushing his way through the screen door beyond. "_T'aime, Memere._"

She didn't answer back _T'aime, Remy Etienne_, but Remy heard it anyway.

* * *

_Dear God,_ thought Rogue to herself, wrapping Gambit's denim jacket tighter around herself. _Hi. Me, again. I wouldn't be botherin' yeh this late at night, normally, but he's been gone such a long time already . . . oh, please, please, please, God, bring him back safe._

A croaking, grating cry near at hand made her jump four feet in the air. Sitting on a nearby branch was a big, black bird—a crow or a raven, or something. Rogue didn't know what the difference was. It was eying her suspiciously out of one round, gleaming black eye.

_Stupid bird,_ thought Rogue, dropping down to earth again. _Go away._ She gave it a belligerent glare.

Something rustled, then crackled. The bird whipped its head towards the noise, then took flight, vanishing almost at once in the darkness. Rogue was tempted to follow suit, but then she saw a glimmer of scarlet, and a second later Remy was standing next to her.

With a strangled cry of relief, Rogue threw her arms around him, noticing only vaguely that he was drenched in ice-cold, foul-smelling bayou water. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close, his breathing labored from stress and exertion.

"Oh, gosh . . ." Rogue choked. "Oh, gosh. Are you okay?"

She felt him nod. "_Ouais_. M'okay."

He wasn't, though. She could feel it. There was a shiver running through her body that was out of rhythm with her own knock-kneed tremble. He was shaking as much as she was. Rogue hung onto him tighter and didn't let go until they were both steady enough to put on a good show of never having been scared in the first place. If he'd been terrified, then only the two of them would ever know.

"Did . . . did you get it?" Rogue asked, stepping back and blinking vigorously to dispel the tears that were threatening to trickle down her cheeks.

Gambit nodded, handing her a wad of fabric. Rogue shook it out, revealing a dress shirt for someone as tall as Remy but not quite as broad across the shoulders. It was the greatest thing she'd ever seen.

"Let's get back t'de plane," Gambit suggested. "I'm freezin'."

Rogue handed him back his brother's shirt and his own jacket, warm from the heat of her body. As soon as he'd shrugged into it, she picked him up and took off.

Logan was waiting up for them. As soon as they glided into the plane, he gave them a brief glance-over, took the shirt that Gambit offered him, and slouched down in the pilot's seat with his feet up on the control panel and his chin on his chest. Jean was in a sleeping bag on the floor of the cockpit. Gambit and Rogue pulled out their own sleeping bags and joined her.

* * *

"I _am_ glad y'came back, Remy. You gotta believe dat."

Remy turned and shot a narrow glare at his adopted father. "You got de weirdest way'a showin' it."

Jean-Luc sat down on the time-smoothed wood boards of the dock. It was sunset, and orange light sparkled in the water around the house. "No matter what you decide, dis yo'home an'it always will be. I just want y't'think it over fo'a while. What it would mean fo'de guild t'have dis kind of an alliance. What it would mean for you. Talk t'Bella."

"I am _not_ talkin' t'Bella. I can't believe I'm talkin' t'you. Dey ain't no way you serious about dis."

"Don't see why I shouldn't be. You two were kids t'gether. What you got against marryin' her, anyway?"

"Against marryin' her . . . nothin'. I might even'a asked her someday, if you'd let me alone. What I got a problem wid is you an Marius sittin' down over drinks an'decidin' t'solve all y'own problems by makin' sure Bella an' me get married. How long you been plannin' dis? Just think it up in de last ten minutes, or you been countin' on it since you adopted me? Is dat what I'm _for_, _père_? Marryin' Bella?"

"You my son, Remy," Jean-Luc snapped, angry now. "Not my chess piece. I ain't forcin' you t'do nothin'. But no 'mount a sentimentality gonna change de facts of our lives. De feud's gotta end, one way or another. Now, I can keep tryin' to talk it down, keepin' our boys in check, fightin' Marius over every little thing dat goes on in dis city an' prayin we kin keep things under control, or you an' Bella can step up an' set an example."

"Won't make everybody suddenly stop hatin' each other."

"It's a start. A strong start. I know y'care about dis guild as much as I do, Remy—as much as Bobby does. Bobby an' I give our lives t'keep it runnin'. Dat's de guildmaster's place. Now, you ain't got de same obligation, but all de same, I never known you t'let your brother beat you in anythin'."

"You leave Bobby outta dis. You leave _me_ outta dis."

"If dat's what you want."

Jean-Luc rose to his feet and walked away, leaving Remy alone on the sunset-lit dock.

Remy didn't want to think about it. It was too crazy, too unbelievably arrogant, to think about. But he thought about it anyway.

And then he went to talk to Bella.

* * *

_T'aime_: Shortened form of _je t'aime_, I love you.


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

Chapter 9

* * *

"So where are we starting?" asked Jean, looking around at the cool green morning and stretching backwards to work out the kinks in her back. She usually slept in a double bed with a very expensive mattress . . . the floor of the X-Jet did horrors to her spine. Logan, of course, could sleep balanced on the nose of a scud missile if he wanted to. Lucky jerk.

Gambit and Rogue were still asleep. Neither of them were early risers by nature, like Jean and Logan were, and they'd been out late last night. She and Logan had snuck out without waking them. No reason to go into action overtired if you didn't have to.

"Probably the Superdome," said Logan. "It's got the most displaced people in one location. Don't think we'll find him there, but we might pick up someone who's run into him."

"Why do you think we won't find him there?"

"Because if he were in good enough shape to be in a refugee camp, he'd be in good enough shape to let someone know where he was."

"So you're thinking hospitals?"

"Makes a lot more sense. There are always swarms of injured John Does after a mess like this. First priority's getting 'em treated. Figuring out who they are can wait. Years sometimes."

"But you don't like hospitals, Logan."

"I don't like eating my vegetables, either, but it's gotta be done."

"Maybe we should start there, then, and get it over with."

"Nope. People don't hang around refugee camps all day. It's just a place to sleep. As soon as they can, they'll be out in the city helping with cleanup, so if we want to find somebody the best time to find 'em is first thing in the morning."

"Good call," Jean agreed. "Let's go, then."

"You leave them a note or something?" he asked, indicating the plane with a jerk of his head.

"Yeah. I told them to meet us back here at sundown, and to scream like crazy if they get into trouble."

Logan raised an eyebrow at her. "So you're gonna listen for them all day, plus look through masses of strangers for someone you've never met, plus keep an ear out for the Professor? Sure you can do all that?"

"I can do it," said Jean, not because she was sure that she could but because being hesitant about the challenge was not going to help her overcome it. "Just don't ask me to pat my head and rub my stomach, too."

Logan smirked and patted her on the head. Jean twisted away, grinning, and stuck her tongue out at him. Very grown-up.

"Well, we ain't gettin' any younger. Let's go."

"You mean _I'm_ not getting any younger," Jean corrected as she lifted them both a couple of inches off the ground and sent them flying over the green-gray water that surrounded their landing site.

"I mean you and Bobby LeBeau ain't gettin' any younger. Or less dead."

"I'm sure he's not dead."

"Maybe, but if he's alive he could become dead, and if he is dead he's not getting any aliver."

Jean raised an eyebrow at him, as much as she could while trying to focus on keeping them both from falling into the swamp. "You know, you really almost scare me sometimes."

"Good," said Logan. "That's healthy."

* * *

By nine-thirty, Rogue and Gambit were picking their way through the broken-branch-strewn streets of the French Quarter.

The last time Rogue had seen it had been last year's _Mardi Gras_. It had been crowded and sparkling then, swathed in hundreds of brilliant colors and packed with jubilant, drunken people. Now it was quiet, brown, and grim. The streets were already moderately crowded. People walked purposefully among the debris, carrying sandbags, cleaning supplies, and other gear. The owners of the businesses along each side of the street were clearing up broken glass and spilled goods, trying to restore some semblance of order and normalcy. Huge puddles of water covered every storm drain, but there were still narrow passages where the pavement was relatively dry. This part of town had been lucky.

Rogue and Gambit walked parallel to one another, but not side by side. Too conspicuous, Gambit said. Alone, their disguises were enough to keep anyone's eye from fixing on them, but together they might jog somebody's memory. The Rippers had long memories, and Rogue had made quite an impression. Or so Gambit said.

Rogue kept sneaking glances at him out of the corner of her eye. Disguise or not, she felt nervous being separated from him. She was on this crazy trip to keep him safe—the few yards of distance could be the difference between life and death here.

_Relax. You can outfly the X-Jet. You'll reach him in time, if you need to._

It was hard to relax, though. She'd never felt more conspicuous in her life. She had no idea how Gambit managed to look so calm, weaving through oncoming foot traffic without a second thought, hardly seeming to pay attention to anything other than where he was going. She kept losing track of him. With brown hair and brown eyes, he looked so _ordinary_.

Gambit turned down a side alley, away from the general flow of traffic. Rogue ducked around somebody and followed him, trying to look as though she'd been planning to make this turn all along.

There was a fence at the back of the alley, blocking their way into the next street over. Gambit was already halfway up it. Rogue walked most of the way into the alley before pulling away from the ground, lifting herself lightly over it and down to the pavement on the other side.

"See anybody you know yet?" she asked, figuring it was okay to talk to him since he'd waited for her to catch up.

"A couple of folks, but nobody real dangerous. An'nobody noticed us. Y'doin' a good job, _chère_."

Rogue smiled a little and curled her toes inside her shoes. "So are we almost to where we're goin'?"

"Couple more blocks. Now listen. When we get there, I need y't'keep quiet. Don't raise a fuss."

"Why would Ah raise a fuss?"

"No reason, 'cause y'ain't goin' to. Right?"

"Right. Okay."

Gambit grabbed her hand and pulled her along after him.

This street was quieter. Only a few people were out, and most of the buildings, though in relatively good condition, looked empty. Rogue stuck as close by Gambit as she could, wondering where they were going and why it was so imperative that she keep her mouth shut. Somehow, the warning boded ill.

Gambit took an abrupt right turn, between a red brick building and a white-painted, balconied one, and knocked on a door in the wall of the white house. After a long minute with no answer, he knocked again, louder.

"Where are we?" asked Rogue, her voice hardly above a whisper.

"Some friends a'mine," Gambit whispered back. "Dey know Guild business, but dey ain't Guild."

"You sure we can trust 'em?"

She saw the corner of Gambit's mouth quirk up. "Lemme tell yeh a great truth, Rogue. Dey's only two kindsa women in dis world who kin keep a secret. One's queens."

"What's the other?"

The door eased open an inch and a half. "Closed," snapped a woman's voice from the other side.

"Well, dat's mighty unfeelin' of you," said Gambit, putting on a great show of being insulted.

The opening between the door and the frame widened a little. "Who is that?"

"Someone whose name shouldn'be tossed around on de public street," Gambit answered.

Rogue caught a glimpse of one blue eye pressed to the door crack, which almost immediately jerked back into the darkness with a gasp. "_Remy!_"

"You wanna let us in? It's gettin' a touch homicidal out here."

The door flew open. A young woman wrapped in a green silk dressing gown took one step outside, grabbed Gambit by the front of his coat, and dragged him into the building. Rogue followed, just in time to keep from being slammed in the door.

"You're crazy," the woman snapped, shoving all the locks on the door closed. "You're completely outta your mind, Remy LeBeau! What are you _doing_ here? Idiot! If Marius finds out you're in the city, it's your head. If he finds out you were _here_, it's _my_ head. What were you thinking?"

"'F I didn'know better, I'd almost say you weren't happy t'see me," said Gambit, pouting.

The woman raised a hand to slap him across the face. Remy grabbed her wrist before the blow landed. "I'm here lookin' for Bobby, Delphine. I ain't just playin' chicken wid'de Rippers. It's Bobby's life we talkin' about."

Reluctantly, Delphine let her hand fall. "All you're going to accomplish is making a clean sweep of every Pincher in the city. You got out, _DB_. Why didn't you stay there?"

"De bayou's in my blood."

"Your blood's gonna be in the bayou."

"Den at least we get a fat gator outta all dis."

"The gators are getting fat enough already." Delphine shook her head. "You stupid, stupid boy. C'mon in an'eat somethin'."

Gambit grinned. "Now dere's my girl."

"Speaking of which . . ." Delphine trailed off, raising her eyebrows and glancing at Rogue.

Gambit made introductions. "Rogue, Delphine, Delphine, Rogue. Delphine's been my friend since I was so high. Rogue was de one busted Jean-Luc outta Blood Moon."

Delphine looked Rogue over again, the eyebrows raised even higher. Rogue wanted to kill Jean for making her wear pastel. Girls who wore pastel couldn't open their own pickle jars, much less bust crime lords out of the strongholds of other crime lords. She glared at Delphine's scrutiny, wishing she looked even slightly more intimidating.

Delphine had to be older than her by at least five years, probably closer to ten. Despite the fact that she seemed to have just woken up, she was beautiful, with thick waves of chocolate-brown hair that fell with casual gorgeousness around her shoulders and into her face. She was eyeing Rogue with interest but without animosity, which struck Rogue as a relatively good sign. If Gambit left the mansion and came back a year later with some strange girl in tow, Rogue felt certain she would react with much less self-command.

"Welcome to New Orleans," Delphine told her, jerking her head towards Remy. "Make sure he keeps his hands off you."

Rogue nodded. "Good advice. Thanks."

Delphine turned around and called out into the hall. "_Alex! Est-ce qu'on a suffit à manger pour encore deux autres?_"

"_On n'a pas suffit à manger pour nous_," answered back another woman's voice. A girl of about Rogue's age with coffee-cream skin and tight-woven cornrows poked her head around the door, saw Gambit, and squealed. "_Mais c'est le diable blanc!_" She scrambled into the room and hugged him. She was, Rogue noted, also wrapped in a bathrobe—blue terrycloth. What time did these people get up?

"_Salut, Alexandra," _answered Gambit, grinning. He drew away from her embrace and turned her to Rogue. "_Voilà Rogue, une très chère amie."_

Alex shook her hand, wearing a bright and welcoming smile. "Friends a Raemy's ah always welcome hea," she told Rogue, her voice heavily accented with something that sounded part French and part Jamaican.

"Nice t'meet you," Rogue answered.

"Come through into de kitchen," Alex ordered. "I put on de coffee and go quick get myself dressed. Didn'expect comp'ny so early." She shooed them out of the mudroom where they'd been standing into a hallway done up in dark crimson wallpaper.

Rogue somehow found herself in the lead of the group. Unsure of where to go, she picked a door that she thought might be the kitchen. Gambit caught her hand before she turned the knob. "Not dat way, _chère,_" he told her gently. He steered her to the other side of the hallway and opened the correct door. "From New York," he tossed over his shoulder to Delphine. "Upstate."

"She sounds like she's from Mizzipi," said Delphine.

"Dat any better?"

"Not really, no."

The kitchen was dim, with the power still out and the windows still boarded, but the gaps between the boards let in enough light to manage by. There was a propane stove set up on the actual stovetop. Sophie lit the burner and put a pot of water on.

In ones and twos, the other occupants of the house wandered into the kitchen to discover Gambit there. They were almost all like Delphine and Alex—girls of Rogue's age or slightly older, many still in pajamas or bathrobes, all of them remarkably beautiful. Remy seemed to know almost all of them by name, and the ones he didn't know he was soon introduced to. Rogue was soon surrounded by a swirl of French names, far too many for her to actually remember.

As the water on the stove came to a boil, she started to get it.

"Remy," she murmured under her breath, as soon as he finished greeting everybody and sat down at the big wooden table next to her, "what is this place?"

"You promised y'wouldn't make a fuss," Gambit reminded her. "Be polite."

Her voice dropped to a strained, almost inaudible hiss that had a hard time getting past her clenched teeth. "Did you bring me to a whorehouse?"

"Not what I'd call it . . ."

"What _would _you call it?"

"_Chez Delphine._"

"Oh, my . . ." Rogue trailed off, unable to articulate her mind-numbing mortification. She closed her eyes and hid her face in one hand.

"She all right?" asked Delphine.

"Mizzipi conniption," Gambit explained, putting a comforting hand between Rogue's shoulder blades. "Give her a minute."

"Would coffee help, or is that just going to make her crazy?"

"Coffee would be fine, thanks."

Someone set a cup of coffee at Rogue's elbow. Keeping her eyes fixed on the table, she muttered her thanks and took a few sips.

"Better?" Gambit asked her.

"Ah'm gonna kill you," Rogue informed him.

"So better, den."

Rogue managed to raise her eyes from the table's surface to see just how much he was enjoying this. His smile was surprisingly sympathetic.

Delphine gave him a cup of coffee and sat down across the table from them, holding a mug of her own. "He didn't warn you?" she guessed gently.

Rogue swallowed another mouthful of coffee. She didn't know which was more rude: to try to talk to Delphine without looking at her, or to look at her with the words _this woman is a prostitute_ running through her head. "He knows Ah hate surprises," she muttered, settling for looking at Delphine's coffee mug.

"Sorry," said Delphine gently. "His girls aren't usually the squeamish sort. I'm sorry we're making you uncomfortable."

"Sorry Ah'm bein' so rude," Rogue choked out.

"It's okay, really. None of us are that fond of this career either. If you've got better options, then good for you. Most of us here are runaways, with only one thing worth selling. Better to sell it here, where everything's clean and as safe as we can make it, then on the streets with creeps and drugs and filth. The house has a good reputation, and the prices are high, so most only have to work a few years to get enough for an education."

"College?"

"Tech school, mostly."

"I gonna be an ultrasound technician in a month," announced Alex proudly, from the stove where she was still working on enough coffee to go around. "Got a job lined up an'all."

"_Formidable_," Gambit told her. "_Felicitations._"

"_Merci_."

Gambit returned his attention to Rogue, bending his head down so his cheek almost touched hers. "You wanna go back to de plane?" he asked gently. "S'okay if you do."

Rogue shook her head. "Ah'll be okay."

"Okay." He leaned away, but kept rubbing comforting circles on her back.

Rogue raised her head a little to catch glimpses of the other girls—and two boys—in the kitchen. They didn't match her preconceptions of prostitutes, which ranged from Dostoyevsky's pure, innocent victims to the image of girls in short skirts and heavy makeup laughing loudly around their cigarettes on the street corners of Manhattan. Everyone in the house seemed well-fed and healthy, and she didn't see any of the symptoms she'd learned to associate with stoners. This house was probably a very different place at night—Rogue flinched and tried not to think about it—but at ten o'clock in the morning, it didn't seem all that different from the Institute.

She took a deep breath to steady herself. Drinking coffee here didn't mean she was going to be trapped in this life—she was well-to-do and educated, and best of all, absolutely untouchable. She'd had to give up a lot of things in her life, but her body would never be one of them. For the first time in her life, Rogue was deeply grateful for her first and worst power. Without it . . . an abandoned girl in rural Mississippi, no protection or friends . . . her life might have been very different. She could have considered herself lucky to be in a place like this.

The three of them sat in silence until the crowd had cleared out of the kitchen. When the kitchen door clicked closed, Delphine asked, "So what was so important you had to sneak yourself and your nice respectable friend into this death trap of a city?"

Remy leaned his elbow on the table. "Somebody told me dat Bobby was out on a job when de storm hit. I need t'know what de job was."

Delphine stared at him, then gave one faint hmph of laughter. "Don't ask for much, do you?"

"You de only one I kin go to, Del. Y'up to y'ears in Guild news an' Guild business, but y'ain't got shoot-on-sight obligations. I gotta find out where Bobby was de night de storm hit."

"_DB_, if Jean-Luc can't find him, with the whole Guild to help, what makes you think that you, sneakin' around in the dark, are gonna do any better?"

"I got ways an' means."

"You are gonna get. Yourself. Killed!" Delphine insisted, articulating each word carefully in hopes of forcing the concept through Remy's scull.

"An' dat's my risk t'take."

Delphine sighed. "Bobby was on a job, but nobody really knew what it was. The client didn't come through the proper channels. He approached Bobby directly, instead of making contact with Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc was plenty upset, but the money was good and Bobby said he could do it, so Jean-Luc let him."

"Couldn't'a stopped him," Remy interjected. "_Robert_'s a full t'ief now. He got de right t'make his own contracts."

"Yeah. But you know what a mother hen your _père_ is. Bobby's always been his golden boy. Kinda forgets sometimes that a guildmaster has to be a thief, too. I think he saw the contract as the first sign that Bobby was gonna take off, like you did. Didn't like letting him out of his sight. But, like you say, the call was Bobby's, and Bobby took the job. Some government science records or something . . . I don't know. Anyway, he called to check in about an hour before the storm hit. Said he had the stuff and was going to make the drop."

"Where was de drop point?"

"Somewhere in the port. He gave his twenty as the wharf when he called."

"Which wharf?"

"Nash A, I think. Way out toward the west end of town there. Maybe Nash B. That was where the storm hit first, so by the time your dad got worried about him cell reception was already long gone."

Gambit nodded. "Well, dat's somethin' t'start with, anyway."

"You're starting with food," Delphine corrected him. "If you'd come by yourself, it'd be something different, but I won't let you starve this nice girl. Looks like you're already letting her freeze herself half to death—she hasn't even got a jacket."

"Ah'm okay," Rogue insisted. "Ah don't get cold. Ah'm from New York."

"Do you want everybody on the street knowing that? Drink your coffee and I'll see what I can do."

She rose from the table and left the room, leaving Rogue staring at her coffee. Gambit was tapping his left index finger on the surface of the table, thinking.

In a few minutes, Delphine and Alex were back. "We'll have beignets ready in a few minutes," Delphine announced. "And here." She set a jacket around Rogue's shoulders: olive green canvas that looked like army surplus. "That'll keep you warm and keep you out of anybody's notice."

Rogue murmured a quiet but sincere "Thanks" and slipped her arms into the sleeves. "Ah'll bring it back."

"Keep it," said Delphine. "Was my granddad's, but it doesn't fit me."

"Oil's hot," Alex announced, looking down into a deep steel stock pot balanced on the little propane stove. She scooped some batter into it, and a few minutes later she presented Gambit and Rogue with hot, golden fried things, still damp with gleaming oil.

Rogue broke hers open, releasing a puff of steam, and put one fragment of the beignet in her mouth. It was sweet and rich and scalding hot, hot enough to have burned her tongue if her tongue could burn. As it was, the warmth filled her mouth and throat. She swallowed as quickly as she could and announced, "This is _fantastic_."

Alex grinned. "Da's Cajuns. Sometimes we gotta 'splain our talk, but we never gotta explain _ni_ our music _ni_ our food."

Gambit made an indistinct noise of appreciation as he chewed. Once he'd swallowed, he said, "Well, hate t'eat and run, but . . ."

"No, please," Delphine interrupted. "If there are two things I want you to do, it's eat, and run. Run fast and far, and maybe, if you're very, very lucky, you'll run fast enough that Marius won't be able to catch you."

* * *

I'm so sorry this took so long! I literally have not had a moment with a computer all week. They moved me over to the other hill so I can no longer pop in and check my e-mail every three hours. But still making progress . . . slowly making progress.

And here is your most extensive French Lesson to date in this story.

_Est-ce qu'on a suffit à manger pour encore deux autres?_: Do we have enough food for two more ?

_On n'a pas suffit à manger pour nous : _We don't have enough food for ourselves.

_Mais c'est le diable blanc:_ But it's the _diable blanc !_

_Voilà Rogue, une très chère amie _: This is Rogue, a very dear friend.

_Chez Delphine_: _chez_ can mean 'the residence of,' 'the business of,' 'the office of.' The colloquial translation would be 'Delphine's Place.'

_Formidable_: Awesome

_Felicitations_: Congratulations

_Ni . . . ni_: Neither . . . nor.

And for your pronunciation information, whenever anybody calls Gambit _DB,_ the letters are pronounced French-style, so it's '_Deh-Beh.'_


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

Chapter 10

* * *

The playing field of the Superdome looked like exactly what it was: a refugee camp.

Tents, some manufactured and some makeshift, spread across the heavily-battered grass. The huge space echoed with voices, and the air was heavy with smells: unwashed, overcrowded human bodies, woodsmoke, propane, chili dogs.

Armed members of the Louisiana National Guard were on patrol around the perimeter of the camp, keeping a watchful eye on things. More stood at the building entrances, checking everyone who entered for weapons. Since the power was still out, they were using battery-operated detector wands to check everyone for metal. Logan and Jean felt it best to come in through the roof.

"Look at that." Jean pointed down to the field as soon as her feet touched the top row of bleachers. "They left the fleur-de-lis."

There were no tents over the stylized dark purple flower on the fifty-yard line.

Logan grunted, an approving smile sneaking onto his face. "Cajuns." He crouched and jumped, landing neatly on the bleacher six rows down. Jean followed, stepping from one bleacher to the next on long, athletic legs.

When they reached the ground, Logan took a preliminary sniff. No sign of the scent he'd come hunting for, but the day was young and the room was big.

"Anything on your end?" he asked Jean, who had her eyes closed.

She shook her head. "Not so far. It's . . . it's a little overwhelming, sorting through all the voices. There's a lot of . . . stress . . . in this room." She reached out a hand and grabbed his arm. "You mind?"

"No problem, Red. You do what you gotta. I'll make sure you don't smack into a wall."

Half-leading, half-supporting Jean, Logan headed into the camp, wandering up the improvised streets marked off by the yard lines. Breakfast seemed to be well underway everywhere: the scent of coffee was heavy in the air. Occasionally they passed a Red Cross table, where long lines of people waited to receive something to eat. Logan could smell scores of people, men, women, and children, some hurt, some sick, some just tired, as well as dozens of dogs . . . but no Bobby LeBeau. Nobody even similar.

"Hey, pal . . . is she okay?"

Logan looked around. A heavy-set, middle-aged man was sitting on a camp chair outside his tent, eating pancakes off a plastic plate resting on his knees. He was eying Jean with concern.

"Headache," Logan explained. "She gets migraines, and the light and noise hurt her."

"Yeah, my wife gets those." He twisted in his seat and called back into the tent. "Margie, you have any of those headache pills left? There's a girl out here who looks like she could use 'em."

"Yeah, just a minute."

"Have a seat," offered the man, indicating a plastic storage bin. Logan sat Jean down on it. "It's tough when you've gotta get out of the house in a hurry. All sorts of things get left behind that you end up needing later."

"You folks seem to be doing all right," observed Logan, looking around at the spacious tent and the two other storage bins.

"Eh, we were ready for it. Not like last time. You had your breakfast yet?"

Jean started to nod, but Logan discreetly grabbed a handful of her hair to stop her. "Not as such, no."

"I'll put on a couple more pancakes. Spare you the wait in line." He set his plate down on the ground, heaved himself out of his chair, and ducked into the shelter.

_Logan, we can't take food from these people!_ Jean hissed inside his mind. _They're refugees. They're living out of boxes._

_And charity is how they remind themselves they're still human,_ Logan thought back. _Just take it. They need to give. Besides, nothing starts a good chat session like pancakes._

Margie, a stout woman with wiry brown-and-gray hair, emerged holding a paper cup of water and a pill. "There y'go, honey," she told Jean, offering them to her. "I know how much those stinkin' migraines hurt."

Jean accepted the water and swallowed the pill, figuring that one superfluous painkiller wasn't going to do her any harm. "Thanks."

"No trouble, hon. Now drink the rest of that and sit quiet for a while, and it'll get better." She took her husband's vacated chair and observed, "You two don't sound much like locals."

"We're not," Logan admitted. "We're down here on business."

Margie laughed. "Not a lot of business going on down here right now. The port's stalled, the airport's a wreck, and don't let's get started on downtown."

"Yeah, we saw it, comin' in." Logan leaned forward, resting his forearms on Jean's shoulders as though she were a table. "You folks New Orleans born and bred?"

"Charlie is," said Margie, indicating the tent with her head. "I grew up in Kentucky. We met in college."

"M-hm. Well, we're down here looking for a local boy who's got lost in the mess after the storm. I know it's a big city, but maybe you know him. The name's Henri LeBeau. Goes by Bobby."

Margie wrinkled her forehead in thought, then turned and hollered into the tent. "Charlie, we know any LeBeaus?"

"LeBeau?" echoed Charlie, emerging with a plate of pancakes in each hand. "That's a Cajun name. Not many Cajuns up our end of town—the ones that live this far east are all down in the French Quarter. That part of town didn't get much flooding, so there aren't too many folks in here from down there."

"Thanks," said Logan, taking the offered pancakes.

"I think there was one family," said Margie. "Over on the forty-yard line. I heard them talking their funny French when I was walking past yesterday. They had a gorgeous German Shepherd with them."

Logan and Jean considered this over pancakes.

* * *

Halfway through their very long walk from the French Quarter to the wharf called Nash A, Rogue finally worked up the nerve to say something.

It had taken a long time. Everything she'd thought of to say had sounded belligerent, defensive, or simply rude. But Gambit hadn't said a word since they'd left Delphine's kitchen, and one more second of silence was going to kill her. So finally she steeled her courage and said, "She's nice."

Gambit shot her a look out of the corner of his eye. He didn't need his usual flash of scarlet to make her tremble in terror: even with a brown eye, his raised brow was enough to shut her up again. Almost.

"Delphine," she clarified. "She's a nice person."

Gambit returned his gaze to the pavement in front of him. "You got some'tin' t'ask me, Rogue, den just spit it out."

Rogue flinched and huddled into the meager protection of the oversized canvas jacket. Gambit hardly ever called her by her name. It was unfamiliar, formal, distant, angry. Part of her wanted to turn lose her temper, to protect herself with harsh, cutting words, but she'd let herself do that once before and it hadn't gone well. They both had fierce tempers: when they blew at the same time, things got broken that didn't fix easily.

"Might as well," Gambit added, his voice still sharp with bitterness. "I kin see it all over your face. You want t'know if I slept wid her."

Rogue swallowed, feeling a hot, miserable blush rise in her cheeks. She did her best to ignore it. "Whether you slept with her is _absolutely_ none of my business," she told him, struggling to hang onto her pride as a way of fighting down her embarrassment and anger. "I wanna . . . know if you _hired_ her."

She didn't want to know. She knew his life before he'd met her—and for a long time after—had been thick with crime and lies and violence. But she wanted it all to just go away, to not matter anymore. She wanted him to be the best friend that she trusted, and nothing else, past, present, or future. She didn't want to know . . . but somehow she had to. Hanging onto uncertainty wouldn't keep her from thinking of Delphine and her girls every time she looked at Remy.

Remy hmphed, his way of laughing when something could have been funny in other circumstances. "Y'know how I feel 'bout capitalism, buyin' an' sellin' an' free trade an' all dat. I'm t'ief, born an' raised. When I want somet'in', I never buy it. I earn it."

Rogue struggled to find a good response to this. Finding none, she settled for a lousy response instead. "Earn it. Don't that mean 'steal it,' down here?" Her voice came out sounding angrier than she'd meant it to.

"Other way 'round," said Remy, not rising to her bait. "When y'steal somet'in', y'earn it, wid hard work an long study an' a lotta skill an' patience."

"And it don't matter to you if it's a piece of jewelry or a girl's heart. Or . . ."

"Or her self-respect?"

Rogue didn't know what to say to this. It was a little late to shut up now, but late was better than never. Not much better, but still.

"Lemme tell y'a story," said Gambit, taking a sudden left and veering towards the river. "Y'ain't gonna like it, but just hear me out. When I was mebbe sixteen years old, dey was a girl had a crush on me. Hélène, her name was. Pretty girl. Younger'n me. She was rarin' t'get int'trouble, like girls sometimes get when dey fifteen an' been raised real strict Catholic. An' dere was me, playin' her up an' eggin' her on, not 'cause I loved her or anythin' but 'cause she was pretty an' I liked raisin' hell just 'cause. So one night, late, I'm sneakin' out thinkin' dis gonna be _it_, y'know?" He shot a glance at her. "Y'don'know. Forget it. Anyway, I'm creepin' down de stairs wid my shoes in my hand, an' dere sittin' in de front room is my mother.

"Her name was Christine . . . Christine LeBeau. She was de most beautiful woman in de whole world. So said _père_, an' he'd be in a position to know. He worshipped her. So did Bobby an' me, 'cause he did. An' she says t'me, 'Goin' someplace, Remy?'"

"What'd you say?"

"Said I was catchin' fireflies. Just t'joke. She knew what I was up to, an' I knew she knew it. She didn'try t'stop me. Didn'even get outta her chair. She just sat real quiet, an' looked me in de eye, an' told me, 'Remy, you a t'ief an' a LeBeau. Everyt'in' in de world's yours t'take if you want it. But I tell you right now: if ever you steal away another human bein's self-respect, you may be a LeBeau, but you'll be no son'a mine.' Den she tol'me g'night an' went upstairs t'bed. Was like she shot me in de head."

"You sneak out anyway?"

"Oh, yeah. Met up wid Hélène. Stole beer an' ice cream an' wandered _la_ _ville _all night. Den I took 'er home an' kissed her g'night an' dat was it. She was so young. She would'a hated herself if I'd let her have her way, an' it woulda been my fault. _Maman _knew it. Always knew everyt'in', dat woman. An' it's de same way wid Delphine. She's got her reasons for what she does, but no amount a'preachin' gonna change de fact dat her line'a work ain't good for a body. Does things t'your head, when y'parcel out yourself an' your love for so much an hour. She's done all right, mostly 'cause she looks after de others an' dey love her for it, but . . ." He trailed off and shook his head. "Christine would never forgive me if I laid a hand on Delphine or one'a her girls."

He shot a sidelong glance at Rogue. "You b'live me?"

Rogue nodded.

"Story's over, so you kin talk now. If y'want."

Rogue stopped walking. Gambit stopped, too, turning back to look at her.

"Just when Ah think Ah've got you figured out," said Rogue, shaking her head, "y'come back an' surprise me anyway. Ah always thought it was a pretty short list, things you didn't do just cause they were wrong."

Gambit's grin was back, wicked and unrepentant as always. "It is a short list. So don't you go t'inkin' I'm some kinda saint. I done a lotta stuff I ain't proud of, an a lotta stuff I shouldn' be proud of but am anyway. But I never laid hands on a girl for any other reason than 'cause she wanted me to. _Eh bien, le voilà enfin._"

This last referred to the wharf that suddenly spread out in front of them.

The Mississippi River, though running high, was not flooded in the traditional sense. There were fewer trees to damage here, so there were fewer branches all over the place. One massive cargo ship was pulled up to the wharf, with a bright blue crane extended over it. No one was working, though. The power was out here, too.

"What are we even lookin' for?" demanded Rogue, surveying the wharf in front of her.

"Clues," said Gambit unhelpfully.

"Oh. Great. Will they have a blue pawprint on 'em?"

"Shush."

Gambit stuck his hands in the hip pockets of his jeans and surveyed the wide, flat, languid Mississippi River. "Storm came in dat way," he mused, pointing across the river to the bright clear sky above it. "You kin see for miles right here. No way Bobby got took by surprise. But he stayed 'cause he wanted t'make de drop. How long would y'stand here and watch it roll in on top'a you?"

"Until about ten seconds after the very last minute, if he's related to you."

Gambit hmphed again, and almost smiled. "Problem wid somet'in' goin' missin' on de wharf is dat by now it could be _anywhere_. Upriver, out to sea, on a train t'Seattle, on a barge t'Brazil. Least, could be if anyt'in' was running."

"No scent to follow," Rogue added. "The storm washed everything away."

Gambit nodded. His gaze fell from the horizon to the smooth-worn boards at his feet. He scuffed one sneaker against them. "He's gotta be _someplace_. It's just a matter a'figurin' out . . . .wha's dat?"

Rogue looked where he was looking, at a spot on the wharf about ten feet to her left. She didn't see anything. "What's what? Ah don't see nothin'."

Gambit dropped to one knee and ran his hand across the boards. "I kin see somethin'," he announced. "Hang on." He stripped off one glove and used his bare hand to remove the brown contact over his left eye. The white pigment that remained turned his iris pink, but Rogue thought it better not to mention that just now.

He ran one hand over the boards again, closing his right eye so he could see better with his left. "_Ouais_. Dey's somet'in' under dere. Somet'in' warm. I kin see it glowin' through de wood." He looked up at Rogue with his absurdly mismatched eyes. "Can you get under dere?"

Rogue nodded. "Just a sec." She stripped off her jacket and her shoes, just in case she ended up getting dunked, dropped them in a heap on the pier and went skimming for the river.

There was still about three feet of clearance between the underside of the dock and the level of the river, making a dark, damp, fish-smelling crawlspace supported by a thick grid of pylons. Rogue darted through them, trying to remember where Gambit was standing. "Can you hear me?"

"_Ouais_," Gambit called back, his voice muffled by the wood and the deceptively soft murmur of the river.

"Knock or somethin' so Ah know where Ah'm goin!"

_Knock, knock, knock. _Rogue veered toward the sound, twisting to keep Jean's rather expensive clothes away from the green, slimy pylons and the murky water.

_Knock, knock._

Rogue was now so far away from the edge of the pier that she could hardly see anything. She reached up and ran her hand across the rough wood surface above her.

_Knock._

Her hand closed around a packet—something warm and solid, fastened to the pier with electrical tape. She tore it loose. "Got it!"

"Bring it up here!"

She shot through the pylons and out into the open air, understanding a little bit of what it meant to Storm to be claustrophobic. When you could fly, you didn't like small spaces. They made you powerless. She curved around and landed next to Gambit, shaking bits of wood and slime out of her now-curly hair, and handed him the bundle.

Gambit stripped off the black tape. Two objects separated into his hands. One was a little white packet, about the size of his palm. "Chemical handwarmer," he announced, tossing it to her. "Dat's where de heat's comin' from."

"Who tapes a handwarmer to the underside of a pier?" demanded Rogue, squeezing the packet to feel the little core of heat still cooking inside.

"Someone who wants me t'find dis." Gambit held up the other object, a little black case, like an eyeglasses case, only flatter. "Bobby's lockpicks."

* * *

Jean was now grateful she'd swallowed that pain pill, because her head was gently throbbing with what would otherwise have been the mother of all overworked-telepath headaches. Listen for Rogue. Listen for the Professor. Listen to the endless, insistent babble of stressed and worried minds all around them. Don't run into anything or anybody. She should have also been listening to Logan's conversations, but she just didn't have the strength left to translate a foreign language on top of everything else she was doing.

She'd taken two years of French in high school, on top of the four she'd done of Spanish, and had kept up both languages at the U. She was pretty good at them. Reasonably so. But when Logan walked up to a family of strangers and started chatting with them in their own language as easily and fluidly as if they'd all been speaking English, she just switched off. No way she was keeping up with that kind of show-off behavior. She could at least take comfort in knowing that his accent was incurably Canadian.

They had to have spoken with every French family in the camp by now. Many of them knew the LeBeaus; some knew Bobby and could describe him. But no one had seen him since before the storm.

"Looks like we're batting zero," Logan observed, surveying the now-half empty camp. "On to plan B."

"Good," Jean sighed, pressing one cool hand against her forehead. "I don't know how much more of this room I could have taken."

Logan surveyed her with a sympathetic glance. "Sorry you have to be The Psychic on this run, Red. I know what it does to ya."

"I can handle it," she insisted. "It just . . . takes a lot out of me, that's all."

He took hold of her arm, pressing his fingers against the temperature-sensitive skin at the inside of her wrist. He had a naturally low body temperature, and the coolness of his fingers helped soothe the feverish heat running through her. "Then let's get you out into the fresh air."

That sounded fine to Jean. She closed her eyes and allowed Logan to lead her towards the exit and _Bobby Lebeau_

She wheeled toward the stray thought. Two young men were approaching them out of the crowd. Their clothes were in drab colors, but clean and well-made, and they looked like they'd bathed and shaved much more recently than most of the people in the camp. And all though neither of them looked like Gambit, somehow looking at them made Jean think of him. It was in the way they moved: loose and loping, deceptively casual. Like wolves.

_Trouble_, she thought at Logan. _One of them knows Bobby. I heard him think it._

Now _we're getting somewhere_. A small smile snuck onto Logan's face. He let go of her wrist and stretched his fingers, as though his claws were itching to get out and cause some trouble.

"You de folks askin' about Bobby LeBeau?" demanded one of the strangers.

"Well, that depends on who's asking about whoever's askin' about him," Logan answered.

The speaker sized Logan up. Jean could almost see him dismissing Logan as no serious threat: too short, no reach, not packing anything. More fool he.

"You're not from 'round here," he accused. "What business you got wid de LeBeaus?"

"Just lookin' for a missing kid is all."

The kid scoffed. "I bet." A small, wicked, dangerous smile crept onto his face. "Who sent you?"

"I ain't answered any of your other questions so far. What makes you think I'm gonna answer that one?"

"It was Remy," the kid announced. "Remy sent you."

The other one laughed. "Stupid smartmouth won't even show his face. Has t'send midgets and girls t'do his dirty work for him."

The spokesman pointed a finger in Logan's face, directly between his eyes. Logan didn't flinch. "You go back where you came from and you tell de _diable blanc_ dat if he wants t'come lookin' for big brother, he kin come himself. An'tell him t'not forget t'pay his respects t'Marius."

"You might wanna get that finger outta my face, if you're attached to it," observed Logan. Jean could feel him tensing up with excitement, and knew exactly what he was thinking without bothering to look into his mind. He was thinking _hit me, kid. C'mon. You know you want to. Bring it._ Logan didn't throw first punches: he'd worked with Professor Xavier too long for that. But no amount of time in civilized society would erase his love of throwing the second punch.

"You threatenin' me, shorty?" The boy loomed over Logan, making the most of his undeniably superior height. "Dat's an awful stupid idea."

"I was always a real slow learner."

"Well, if dat be de case, mebbe I should write down my message so you be sure t'deliver it right."

With a flash of movement so quick Jean could barely follow it, there was a silver switchblade in the man's hand. He was fast, and he knew it. He let the blade drift across Logan's forehead, then come down until the tip rested against his cheekbone. "Not a lotta space, but don'worry. I write real small. Now you tell Remy LeBeau . . ."

The knife flashed, and Logan flinched as it laid open a broad scarlet gash from his eye to his ear.

"An' you be sure t'use dose _exact_ words," the kid snarled.

Logan clapped a hand over the wound, seemingly to control the bleeding. "I think you just pulled a knife on me," he observed, his speech stilted since he wasn't moving his jaw more than he could help.

"You got a problem with it, _mec_?"

"Oh, no. 'Cause now I get to pull a knife on you."

"Try it. Y'lose y'hand before it get to yo'pocket."

Logan started to smile. He took his hand away from his face. The fingers were stained with blood, and long drips of it ran down to his chin, but as he smiled the wound itself closed like a zipper, leaving smooth, unbroken skin underneath. Still grinning a wild, predatory grin, he asked, "Who needs pockets?"

Jean took a step back. She was wearing a new shirt, and bloodstains were a pain to get out.

In a heartbeat, Logan was in the air, all six claws out, an animalistic snarl resonating from behind his bared teeth, arms spread wide to catch his target if it tried to dodge. Dodging, of course, was out of the question for the boy. He was fast, but Logan was at least forty years of training faster.

The quieter of their two opponents made a move for Jean. She heard her word _hostage_ flicker through his mind, and rolled her eyes before taking a stance. Without a bit of wasted energy, she lifted him into the air, flipped him over, and dropped him on his head. _Stay down or I'll just have to do it again,_ she advised him.

By this time Logan's fight was over. The kid was on his back on the grass, Logan kneeling on his chest. One fistful of claws was buried in the turf, dangerously close to the man's left ear. The other was ready to drive through the exposed throat.

"My turn to ask some questions," Logan snarled. His own blood was still all over his face, some of it dripping down onto his opponent's. "Where is Bobby LeBeau?"

"Dunno."

Logan retraced his middle claw a little and pressed the tips against the kid's throat, each claw leaving an identical spot of bright, warm blood. "Where's Bobby LeBeau?"

"I dunno, man. _Je vous jure_."

"Jeannie," said Logan without breaking his eye contact. "Make him tell me where Bobby LeBeau is."

"The Professor wouldn't like it. It's unethical."

"And you know what would be more unethical? Me slitting his throat while he's lyin' on the ground squirming like a flipped-over beetle. Real unethical. I'd lose sleep."

Jean sighed. "Fine." Her opponent was moaning and trying to get up, so she flicked her hand to slam his head against the ground again. Then she dropped to her knees next to Logan's downed opponent, took a deep breath, and dove into his mind.

It was an unpleasant mind, and her head already hurt. She combed through his memories, trying to avoid the dark corners where unspeakable deeds twisted like snakes, looking for the face she'd seen in Gambit's thoughts.

She saw him as a childhood friend, as a teenage enemy, an adult rival . . . but she didn't see him as a victim or a prisoner. She didn't see him at all since the storm.

"He doesn't know anything," she announced, pulling herself back into her own body and blinking a few times as she got used to the orientation. "He's as clueless as we are."

Logan sighed. "Too bad." He narrowed his eyes at the kid for a moment and then asked, "You think the Professor would be mad if I chopped him up anyway?"

"Yes, Logan, I think he would."

"Rats." Logan retracted his claws and climbed to his feet. "Well, time's a'wastin'. Nice talkin' to you boys. Hope we run into you again some time."

* * *

Today's French Lesson:

The _fleur-de-lys_ is a stylized lily that is one of France's national symbols. It's also the logo of the New Orleans Saints.

_Eh bien, le voilà enfin:_ Okay, there it is at last.

_mec: _Dude; man; pal.

_Je vous jure_: I swear to you. (This sentence is also in the formal: you only use _vous_ when speaking to people who outrank you, or as a plural. He's being polite now.)


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

Chapter 11

* * *

"What makes yeh so sure they're his picks?"

Rogue and Gambit had returned to the plane well before sunset, ahead of Jean and Logan. They now sat on the jet's camping mattresses in the flickering orange light of a fire, which Gambit had managed to light despite the dampness of every piece of wood for miles. His powers had had something to do with it, but Rogue was too tired and creeped out to accuse him of cheating. Darkness was falling rapidly, and the fire kept the shadows at bay.

She was poking at an MRE packet, of which there was always a large supply aboard the X-Jet. The food inside bore a superficial resemblance to spaghetti, which she didn't really like even at the best of times. It had been the first one she'd laid her hand on, but now she was regretting not looking for the southwest beef and black beans.

Gambit was still studying the pick case. In response to her question, he tipped it so she could get a good look at the contents. Slim silver lockpicks were lined up inside, as fine and gleaming as dentist's tools. With his free hand, he fished inside his jacket and pulled out his own case, snapping it open so she could compare the two. "See de difference?"

The two cases were identical, with heavy-duty black plastic shells and black velvet interiors. "These are in backwards," she observed, pointing to the case they'd found under the pier.

"'Xactly. Bobby's left-handed. Only de best t'ieves invest in picks dis high quality, an' barely any of 'em would put de picks in like dis. For sure nobody else in de U.S. It's his, all right."

"So did he put it there?"

"He coulda. T'ief on a job carries handwarmers like we found, and electrical tape, too. But dese packets don't give off heat for more'n a couple of days. If it'd been put dere before de storm, it woulda been stone-cold by now."

"So somebody put it there after Bobby disappeared, and they set it up so only _you_ could find it. Gambit, somebody knew you were comin'."

"Yep." Gambit tucked his own pick case back into his pocket, and went back to studying the other. "Question is dis: was it Bobby, or whoever took 'im?"

"Ah think the question is how much trouble are we in now that somebody knows we're in the city?"

"Not too much. Not yet. Knowin' we here and findin' us are two different problems, 'specially when we got a VTOL jet an' no need for cars or boats." He tapped the case against his chin. "T'ing's heatin' up, though. You should go home."

"Whatever." She stuck her tongue out at him. He grinned in response.

Rogue let her eyes fall to the food, which she poked a few more times before accepting that no amount of waiting was going to make it any more edible. She looked back up at Gambit, who was now staring into the fire.

"Do you want me to?"

Gambit looked up. "Huh?"

"Do you want me to go home?"

Gambit raised an eyebrow at her.

"Ah know it's . . . weird, for you, bein' back here. Even weirder tuh be back here with me. 'Cuz you _fit _here, somehow. Theives an' assassins and hookers and kidnappings and disguises . . . it suits yeh, and that . . . it kinda scares me, y'know? Like, what're you doin' in Bayville, anyway? And what am Ah doin' here? Am Ah really here t'help you, or did Ah just come to . . . to try and make sure you'd come home again?"

The words spilled out of her helter-skelter, somehow drawn out by the silence that underlay the song of a thousand crickets and the soft, murmuring roar of the fire. Gambit's red eyes watched her, impassive, unembarrassed. Rogue couldn't stand their detached scrutiny, and cast her eyes down into the dirt where pebbles and bits of grass cast midnight-black shadows against the firelit ground. "Ah know Ah can't make you promise me anythin'. Ah know Ah got no business even askin'. But Ah wish Ah could. Just to know for sure that you don't love New Orleans more than . . ." The word _me_ tried to escape her lips, but she bit it back. "More than the Institute. More than all of us."

Gambit didn't say anything.

Rogue dared a glance up at him. He was still watching her.

She squeezed her eyes shut in embarrassment. "Please say somethin'."

"If I had t'leave de Institute, someday—"

She dared to peek at him.

"Would you come wid me?"

Suddenly Rogue realized that this conversation had gone way, way too far.

Futilely, she tried to retreat. "Would depend on where you're goin', Ah guess," she quipped, trying to laugh and failing.

"Would it?"

No, it wouldn't. She would go with him to the end of the world, if . . . if she could walk away from the X-Men. Could she? Should she? The thought of him asking her to go with him made her heart race with happiness even as it froze in terror. How much would she be willing to give up to stay with him?

Gambit shook his head and smiled, the slow, sad smile that somehow always made her feel welcome and safe. "Don'answer. Just wanted yeh t'see what hard t'ings promises are t'make. 'Specially when dey's two t'ings in y'life dat deserve everyt'ing y'have t'promise." He shook his head at her. "Rogue, _chère_, I'd promise you de moon an' stars, even promise t'stay wid you forever, if I hadn't made dat promise once an'had t'break it."

"When yeh promised—" Rogue started, then cut herself off. The name _Belladonna _would not escape her lips tonight. There was trouble enough between them without bringing that up.

"When I promised _la ville_," Gambit finished for her. "Promised her everythin', once. My whole world, whole life, was between de river an'de lake. I was s'posed t'be a t'ief. Best in de world. I was trained for it, was meant for it. I _wanted_ it. Was gonna be de youngest t'ief ever t'get his Master's Mark. I was so sure'a who I was . . . den it all blew away. One second. An' I realized dat a world dis fragile ain't for makin' promises in." He caught her eye. "But if it's any sort a'reassurance to y', _chère_, I don'want y't'go home. I'm glad t'have y'here wid me. Nice t'have somet'in' t'remind me . . ."

"Of what?"

The soft suggestion of a smile became a real smile at last. "Of how much Gambit's lived since de _diable blanc_ died here."

And Rogue smiled, too.

"So you gonna sit dere on de other side'a de fire all night an'lemme freeze t'death? Or y'afraid dat if y'come too close I'm gonna try t'kiss you again?"

Rogue shook her head and lifted off the ground, leaving the untouched and unappetizing food behind. "Ah trust you." She landed next to him and snuggled against his shoulder, as she hadn't done since the night the hurricane had hit. Gambit lay back, stretching out along the length of the mattress and settling her next to him, one arm slung around her and the other resting on his stomach, his hand laid over hers.

Rogue relaxed into his comforting, familiar touch, forcing the name _Belladonna _to the back of her mind. Tomorrow would be soon enough to worry about that. In fact, _never_ would be soon enough to worry about that. Remy was here with her, and that was what mattered. No promises. But for tonight, they were together and content. That would have to be enough.

"Remy?"

"Yeah?"

"Why do they call you _diable blanc_, anyway?"

She felt him laugh. "Was my name before I had a name. Ever'body in N'Awlins always called me dat. White devil. Red-eyed trouble straight from Hell."

Rogue giggled. "Ah kin see that. But Ah like Gambit better. Not _evil_, really, but . . . risky."

"Care t'take your chances?"

"Always."

He laughed and laced his fingers through hers. "An'I like Rogue. Girl who don't belong t'nobody but herself. An'me."

"You wish."

They lay together in companionable silence for a long few minutes, listening to the crickets and the fire. Then Gambit raised his head a bit, and Rogue had to pull back to keep her forehead from touching his cheek. "Sounds like Logan an' Jean are gettin' back. Y'better sit up."

"Logan kin shove it," Rogue moaned.

"Risky thinkin'."

"Ah like risk."

"Me, too." Gambit settled back onto the mattress, rearranging Rogue so she was comfortable again. Rogue closed the eye that was resting against his chest, but kept the other open to watch Jean and Logan come floating across the bayou and land lightly on the ground next to the fire.

"Stripes, get off him," Logan ordered gruffly. "We got any of those Meals, Rarely Edible?"

"Masticated, Regurgitated, Eviscerated," offered Jean.

"Morsels Rejected by de Enemy," Gambit suggested.

"The black beans ain't so bad," said Rogue. "You wanna bring me one while you're in there?"

"Get off him and get it yourself," Logan snapped. "Red, what's your pleasure?"

"Sloppy joes, please." Jean sat down on the air mattress that Rogue was no longer using and stretched her hands out to the fire. "I'm starved. You guys have any luck today?"

"Fair bit," said Gambit idly. "You?"

"Nothin' but trouble," said Logan, emerging from the plane with MREs in hand. "But trouble's somethin'." He gave Rogue a smart kick in the side, the kind that would have hurt a lot back when things like that hurt at all. "Up. Now."

Rogue made a belligerent noise in the back of her throat and did as she was told, wrapping the jacket tightly around herself to try and hold onto some of Gambit's warmth. Gambit sat up, too, with better grace, and arranged himself so his thigh was pressed against hers—just so each could still know that the other was there.

"So what trouble, exactly?" he asked.

"Some friends of yours," said Jean, her eyes fixed on the fire. "They send their regards." She took her lower lip in her teeth, as she always did when thinking very hard about something, and spread her fingers wide. One of the stronger flickers of flame gave a decided wobble. "There were two of them, a little younger than you. The one whose mind I probed was called Bertrand."

"Bertrand?" Gambit repeated. "Bertrand Bourdreaux?"

"That sounds right." Jean pulled one hand back, and the flame followed it, twisting into an s-curve. "He figured anyone from out of town asking about Bobby had to be here on your behalf, so he told us to tell you to come into the city yourself, and to pay your respects to someone called Marius."

"You know who that is?" asked Logan, taking a seat beside the fire and slicing open the little cardboard box of food he'd brought from the plane.

"Bad guy," Gambit deadpanned. "Bertrand's his nephew. Sorta. Younger brother's adopted cousin. But de Beoudreauxes are no friends to de LeBeaus."

"Yeah, we gathered that when he pulled a knife," Logan offered. "Red, will ya knock that off?"

Jean amiably ignored him and worked on squishing the flame down into a sort of ball.

Gambit snorted with laughter. "He still got all his extremities?"

"Most of 'em. But Jean combed his brain, and he didn't know anything."

"Don't mean his people ain't got Bobby. Marius is too smart t'let a moron like Bertrand know everyt'in' he's got goin' on. And Marius ain't got nothin' against Bobby—not even much against Jean-Luc. It's me he hates. Which would explain . . ." He held up the pick case and explained where they'd found it.

"So the Rippers have him," Rogue decided.

"Not necessarily," protested Jean. "The evidence is all circumstantial so far." She was rapidly getting better at telekinetically manipulating the fire: she was now working on something more complicated than a squished ball, but it was hard to work out what it was supposed to be.

"But it's the best explanation we've got," Rogue pointed out.

"But we can't move 'gainst de Rippers 'till we sure. Dey dangerous. And dey powerful: could be keepin' Bobby anywhere."

"We've got a direction to keep looking, at least." Jean gritted her teeth and wrenched the air over the fire. The flame she was playing with spread into something with wide, sweeping wings. "Hey, I got it!"

Logan reached across the fire and swiped at the figure with his bare hand. "Will you _knock that off_ already?"

Jean let her hands drop. "Jeesh. Usually you're in a better mood after scaring punk teenagers."

"Told you a million times not to play with fire." Logan gave his hand a shake, as if to whip off the last bits of burn.

"I think you told me once, when I was twelve." Jean rolled her eyes and stood up. "I'm gonna go check in with the house. And if I find any scissors in the X-Jet, I'm going to run with them. That okay with everybody?"

"Fine by me," said Gambit amiably.

"Kin Ah talk tuh Kurt, if he's still up?" asked Rogue.

"I'll check."

"So where do we go from here, Fearless Leader?" asked Logan.

Gambit scoffed at the title. "Gotta squeeze de Rippers. Dey hold ont'secrets to de bitter end."

"Well, if they're looking to use Bobby as a hostage to trade for you, they'll be getting in touch with you eventually."

"Yeah. Won'dat be fun."

"But the more information we have before they move, the better off we're gonna be. You got sources you can go to that might know about where Marius would keep a hostage?"

Gambit shook his head. "None wid dat level of information. None it'd be safe t'go to."

"Then we gotta corner a Ripper," said Rogue. "Jean can get what we need, right?"

"Jean's got ethical issues about that."

"Well, Jean's ethical issues can kiss my—ow!"

Gambit had smacked her smartly on the back of the head. "Let de girl keep her conscience if she wants to," he chided. "Dey's few enough in dis world."

"Rogue!" Jean called from inside the plane. "Kurt's up. He wants to talk to you."

"Comin'." Rogue lifted herself off the ground and flew through the hatch.

There was a video screen on the right side of the cockpit, not as large or as clear as the one in Professor Xavier's office but perfectly serviceable. Kurt's face, slightly fuzzier than usual, peered at her through it.

"Rogue? Can you hear me?"

Rogue grinned. Suddenly, she was overwhelmingly glad to see him. Out of well-ingrained habit, she winked. "Hey, Kurt. What'd Ah miss in class?"

"Um, Review stuff, mostly. We all took notes for you. How's life down zere?"

"Oh, y'know. Trashed, humid, and depressing."

She wanted to tell Kurt about Delphine's place, about the awkward and taxing day she'd had, but she bit her tongue. Kurt was not the right person to unload that kind of stuff on. Come to think of it, she couldn't think of anyone who'd be the right person to unload that kind of stuff on. Except Gambit. And she was trying very hard not to heap her own problems on Gambit right now. She might not be succeeding, but at least she was trying.

"Any sign of Gambit's brother yet?"

"A couple. Not a whole lot, but enough to keep lookin'. Any sign'a Mystique up there?"

"Nothing. Maybe she's in Aruba."

"Wish Ah was in Aruba. Y'know, if Mystique wasn't."

"Maybe vhen she leaves, we can go."

"Good plan. Run that by the Professor, and Ah'll pack mah swim suit." Rogue grinned, then checked her watch. "It's late over there. Yeh better get to bed."

"Yeah. Good night, little sister."

"G'night, little brother."

* * *

Jean used up a little of the jet's fresh water supply to take a shower. She'd talked with Scott for a few minutes after Rogue was done talking to Kurt, and while it was wonderful to see him and hear his voice, the conversation reminded her of just how dirty she was. In New York, she would never have let her boyfriend see her with this much sweat on her face. The 

humidity down here was unbelieveable. There wasn't much water in the X-Jet's tank, but she made what she could of it, then stayed in the tiny bathroom for a while scrubbing at her face and brushing and brushing her long red hair.

When she emerged, warmly wrapped in pale pink pajamas, Rogue and Gambit had already called it a night. They lay side by side on the floor of the cockpit. Rogue was already asleep, Gambit nearly so. Jean offered a soft 'good night' as she stepped over him, and received a good-natured 'mmph' in response.

Logan was outside, underneath the plane. He'd taken off one of the maintenance panels and was monkeying about with the wires inside. Jean didn't have a clue what he was doing, but the X-Jet was his pride and joy and he knew every inch of its workings. He didn't look at her as she approached, though she knew he knew she was there.

"I came to say good night," Jean told him.

"So say it," was Logan's characaristically brusque response. "And when you go inside, check to make sure Rogue hasn't rolled over next to the Cajun again. You might have to move her over under the pilot's seat."

Jean laughed, her arms folded around herself to ward off the cold. "Why does it bother you so much when they're together? It's not like she's going to end up pregnant. She's Rogue. How much trouble could she possibly get into?"

Logan fitted a wire into place, making something inside the plane hum with correctly-routed power. "That's the problem."

"I don't get it."

"Rogue's got a handicap. A serious one. Her powers separate her from other people in a way that I don't think anybody else could ever possibly understand. There's a lot that she'll never get to have. Big things; important things. Things that make life worth living. And the longer it takes her to figure that out, the happier I'm gonna be. So while I'm on duty, Gambit keeps his distance." He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "Go to bed, Red. Long day tomorrow."

* * *

No French in this chapter that y'all don't already know. Sorry. I'll see about getting fancier next chapter.

* * *


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

Chapter 12

* * *

Everybody dreamed that night.

Logan dreamed of when he'd first come to the Institute, with a spinal injury that had taken almost a week to heal properly. The big house on Greymalkin had been sunny and quiet then, green and gold with springtime. Most of the rooms were locked up to gather dust—the mansion only held four people. There was some bald guy in a wheelchair, a queenly young woman with white hair and milk-chocolate skin, and two little eleven-year-old kids who were so well-behaved that Logan felt sure there must be something seriously wrong with them. He didn't remember being anywhere near that good when he was a kid. Then again, he didn't remember being a kid at all. His memory was a jumble of barked military orders, barroom brawls, the smells of disinfectants and hot metal and gunpowder, falling cherry blossoms, the names Logan, Wolverine, Weapon X. He didn't remember who'd given him any of them.

"Smoking's bad for you."

He'd been on the back porch, leaning on the railing in a position that was decidedly not good for his damaged spine, smoking the last of the cigars he'd had with him when Xavier found him. He shot a contemptuous glance at the little girl who'd spoken. She was glaring at him with the sort of fearless sass that nobody used with him anymore. She was a redhead, too. It figured.

"Beat it, kid."

"Why should I? It's my house. And you're going to get lung cancer."

"Nope."

"Well, _I'm_ going to get lung cancer."

"So go away."

She studied him for a long moment, her hands on her hips. "So where are you from?"

"None-a-Your-Business, Nebraska. Why do you care?"

"The professor said we should try to be nice to you, so I'm being polite. You're not making it very easy, though."

"Not my job."

"Well, it's not mine, either. Skittles?"

She pulled half a package of candies out of her pocket, unrolled it, and offered it, shaking the bag so the little pieces rattled against each other.

Logan looked at the bag, then at the girl, in disbelief. "You're offering me Skittles."

"Yeah. Want some?"

"Why?"

"Because I don't have any M&Ms. And because you sound like you had a really, really bad day, and because the best thing for bad days is Skittles. Hold out your hand."

Logan held out one hand, the palm roughened with work but unmarked by the scars that he knew should be there. She poured a dozen brightly colored candies into it, then took some for herself.

"You don't have to be scared of us," she told him, picking out the purple ones and tossing them in her mouth. "Just because we're mutants, I mean. We're just like you."

"It ain't the mutants I'm worried about. It's everybody else."

"Everybody else is okay, too. Most of my friends are normal, and they're all nice. They just have to get to know us. But there aren't any normal humans here. Just us."

He glanced down at her hand as she picked out the green candies. "What, you don't like the red ones?"

"No, they're my favorites, so I save them for last."

He chuckled. He couldn't help it. All the things he'd seen and done and suffered over these last few years, and here he was, sharing Skittles with an eleven-year-old kid on a sunny porch in rural New York. Just when he'd thought there was nothing left that could surprise him. She grinned at him, her green eyes lighting up with all the sparkle of being young, safe, and happy. She was going to be a heartbreaker in ten years or so.

He sorted the red candies out of the pile in his palm and poured them into her hand. "There you go, Little Red."

"My name's Jean."

"Uh-huh."

* * *

Rogue dreamed that she woke up in bed at the Institute in the middle of the night. Kitty was wrapped in blankets and shadows, breathing deeply. But Rogue heard the halting, gasping breaths of someone having a nightmare.

It was coming from the heater vent. She and Gambit had discovered long ago that the vent connected their rooms; she could hear everything that went on in there, if she listened. So when he had nightmares, she knew about them.

She kicked off her blankets and headed for the window, letting cold air come pouring in. Behind her, Kitty moaned and wrapped the blankets more tightly around her. Rogue closed the window behind her and went skimming along the side of the house to Gambit's room. She eased the window open and slipped inside.

She could hear him more clearly now. The quick, startled, trembling gasps of breath seemed to echo in the room. She flew to his bed to shake him awake . . . but the bed was empty. The room was empty. The mattress was stripped bare, the dresser unused. There were no coats, uniforms, or shoes in the closet. It was as deserted as the day Evan left.

But she could still hear him.

She shot out into the hallway, calling for him, begging him to wake up so he could tell her where he was. No one seemed to hear her. All the bedrooms stayed dark, and the horrible, twitching breathing still resonated against the walls.

There was no motorcycle in the garage. The chart on the kitchen wall for who did dishes on what day didn't have his name on it. Rogue scanned it frantically, thinking maybe she had an old chart . . . and then saw that her name wasn't on it either. The rotation switched straight from Amara to Kurt, with no Rogue in between.

She left the chart behind and flew out onto the lawn, rising high above the grounds so she could see everything for miles. Even up here, she could still hear him, though he couldn't hear her.

Someone was standing just outside the gate.

Rogue dropped like a stone, landing on the other side of the black iron bars. Gambit smiled at her through them. She reached through the gate for him, and as he grasped her hand she suddenly realized that she had no gloves on, and the sound of his nightmare breathing still pounded against her ears.

He seized her hand, his smile becoming predatory, and without really changing he was suddenly Mystique, and Rogue could feel her body melting into slime and bitterness, reforming with a face that wasn't her own. Two blue hands clasped together through the gate.

She shot awake with the force of a bullet, reeling with disorientation. The plane was dark and quiet. Her sleeping bag was twisted around her.

As soon as she could move, she untangled herself. Gambit was asleep next to her, his breathing deep and even. She lay awake for a long time, looking at him, before finding the courage to fall asleep again.

* * *

Gambit dreamed about Bella.

He couldn't quite see her; she was hazy in the way that people in dreams sometimes are. But Blood Moon Bayou was crystal-clear. The sunlight came filtering through the trees in streaks. They sat in Jean-Luc's motorboat, drifting across the quiet water, far away from anyone who could overhear.

"It's crazy," Gambit told her. He couldn't tell if he was speaking French or English. "What d'they t'ink we are? Party favors? Like we get married on dey say-so. Remy, get de mail. Remy, put y'shirt in de wash. Remy, marry Bella."

"You sure know how t'flatter a girl," Bella commented. He could see her mouth clearly as she spoke, full and soft and red, curved up in a sardonic smile.

Remy stopped himself and rolled his eyes. "Sorry. But y'know what I mean."

"I do. It's none'a their business."

"Exactly."

She laughed. It was a bright, clear laugh, as always, but there was an undercurrent of something else behind it. "Well, I guess I'll never get t'marry you now. You'd freeze in hell before you let Jean-Luc be right."

Remy raised his eyebrows at her. "Wait . . . what? You sayin' you _do_ wanna marry me?"

"Told yeh yes when y'asked me."

"I never asked you."

"_Mais si._ You were eight, I was six. You stole me a ring pop and said I couldn't have it unless I married you. So I said yes."

"It don't count if you eat the ring."

"I kept the plastic part."

Remy laughed, then sobered up. "Serious, Belle. No jokes. Do you wanna marry me? I'm not askin' y'to . . . not yet. I just wanna know."

She smiled again, and the smile was sad. "Y'ain't no handsome prince, Remy LeBeau, dat's fo'sure certain. But you're good-lookin' enough, an'you're a good kisser."

Remy grinned.

"I would't mind bein' married to you. Not much. Dey's worse fates."

"Y'sure know how t'flatter a guy."

She smiled, but stayed silent for a few long seconds. Then she said, "Dey's other things t'consider, too. We may not like it, but our dads are right. Unitin' de guilds would help a lot. If Marius an' Jean-Luc had to learn to share gran'babies, dey might learn how t'share other things, too. And when Bobby an' Julian become guildmasters, dey'd be brothers. It's not a reason t'get married, but it'd be a good thing."

Remy nodded. She was right, as far as it went.

She was silent for a few more long minutes. The boat rocked lazily underneath them. She watched the water.

"I got six months left on my trainin'," she announced, her voice casual but shaking ever so slightly.

"Congratulations."

She snorted. "When I finish, I'll be initiated into de guild. Full-fledged assassin. You know what my rite of passage is?"

"I can guess."

"You'd guess right. It's all right for you boys, doin' pinches—it's dangerous and all, but everything's got insurance and it's not like it really matters anyway. It's just silliness. But my guild . . . I been trained to it all my life, I know how, I know I'm supposed to be detached, but . . ." She stopped and took a deep breath. "As it comes up, I'm just really not lookin' forward to killin' somebody. It's not 'cause I'm scared. I just . . . don't wanna do it. And if I married you, I wouldn't have to. I'd be helpin' de guild another way. Wouldn't even have t'finish de trainin' at all. Safe in de T'ieves Guild. I know it's no reason t'get married—"

"It's as good a reason as any," Remy interrupted. "Maybe not traditional, but it works."

Bella raised her head and laughed. "Traditional? You kiddin'? Arranged marriage _is_ de tradition. My parents had one. Your parents had one. I don'know about mine, but yours seemed t'do all right."

Remy nodded. His mother's face appeared in his mind, clever and canny and reasonably content. He knew for a fact that his father had worshiped the ground she walked on, but he'd never stopped to think if she'd loved him the same. But she'd been a good wife, and a good mother to his boys. And she'd been happy, as far as Remy knew.

"I been out on my own a long time," he told her. "Been livin' without a home, without a name. It ain't much of a life. When I left, de idea of settlin' down wid one woman an' one home didn'much appeal t'me. But now . . . well, dey's worse fates. And you're a fine-lookin' woman, Belladonna Boudreaux. An' you been my friend a long time. I always thought one day I might marry you, if I felt like it, an' I guess today's as good as any. Ain't good reasons, but if you're willin' t'put up wid reasons like dat . . ."

He trailed off, shaking his head. He'd come here to rant and rave and complain about their parents, and he'd ended up doing exactly what Jean-Luc wanted him to do.

But this wasn't about Jean-Luc, or Marius. This was about Remy having a home, and Bella having an escape. This was about friends helping one another out. There were worse fates.

"Belladonna, will you marry me?"

She cast a glance at him, sizing him up, her eyes sparkling and her smile devil-wicked. "You ever gonna cheat on me?"

"Depends. You gonna let y'self go?"

"No jokes, Remy. I don'wanna end up like my mother. Just tell me straight out. You gonna cheat on me, ever?"

Remy reached across the boat and took her hand. It was warm and soft; assassins didn't get calluses like thieves did. His mind strayed back to girls he'd known, some he'd even loved, and lingered for a long moment on that attitude-rich mutant girl from New York . . . the one he'd watched fly away back to her own family. Then he pushed the memories away. "I promise you. Here on out, you de only woman for me. I will never cheat on you."

She smiled at him, the warm smile of one friend to another. "Well, as long as y'promise, I guess I could marry you. Got nothin' else t'do this week."

"Sounds like a plan, den."

"Sounds like."

"One problem, though."

"What's dat?"

"If y'go through wid dis, yo'name's gonna be Belle LeBeau. You sure you kin live wid dat?"

Bella's golden, joyous laughter startled him awake.

* * *

The jet was dark and quiet. Remy took a few deep breaths, remembering where he was and what he was doing there. Then he turned his head and looked at the girl lying next to him.

One white streak lay across her face. There were soft purple shadows on her eyelids where the blood vessels showed through her translucent ivory skin. Beautiful Rogue, that he'd thought about even when he shouldn't have.

_No promises._

* * *

Jean had a dream in which she was at school, but had forgotten her books and had to chase down someone who could give her a ride home to get them. It was not a particularly memorable dream, and when she woke from it she had the presence of mind to realize that it had been rather a waste of time.

She raised her head and looked around. All three of her friends were quietly, peacefully sleeping. But something was moving in the dark.

Jean reached out a hand and ordered the emergency gear stowage to pop open. A flashlight flew into her hand. She flipped the switch and sent a beam of light slicing across the cabin.

There was a bird sitting on the console. It glared at her with one bright, black eye, frozen in the beam of light.

Well, that's what they got for leaving the hatch open in the middle of a swamp. Jean rolled her eyes and switched off the light. "Get out of here, you."

There was a rustle of wings. Jean rolled over onto her side, mashed her backpack into a better pillow shape, curled up into a ball, and went back to sleep. She dreamed of fire.

* * *

_Mais si:_ Yes, you did.

And an explanation of the joke: Belladonna's nickname, Belle, means 'Beautiful' in French. (Her full name is actually 'beautiful lady' in Italian.) Remy's last name, LeBeau, means 'The Handsome.' No, really. So she would be 'Beautiful the Handsome' if she married him.


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

Chapter 13

* * *

Day two in New Orleans. Day two of walking on the razor's edge between a life of freedom and a gruesome death in chains.

Gambit had a knife in his pocket. He always did, even at school. Never knew when you were going to need a knife. He needed one now.

He knelt on the boards of the Nash A pier, ignoring the bustle of people around him. The wharf had opened again, and people were hard at work getting the shipping back on schedule. Rogue stood guard over him, making sure no one tripped on him or got in his way.

His knife was short, but sharp. It dug easily into the boards of the pier, letting him pry up long, thin strips of wood to form letters. _JE SUIS ICI_. I am here.

"You really, absolutely sure this is a good idea?" Rogue asked again, her fists jammed into the pockets of her jacket and her eyes nervously scanning the crowd for anyone looking suspiciously interested in them.

"Dey can't start hostage negotiations if dey can't find me," Gambit pointed out. "Establish dis spot as a message drop point, an' mebbe we get somewhere wid'out givin' up too much information 'bout where we is."

"I dunno, Gambit. This is makin' me real nervous."

"Not'in' makes you nervous. Not heights, history tests, or supervillains."

"You tellin' me you ain't nervous?"

"Oh, yeah. I'm nervous." Gambit stood up and tucked the knife away inside his jacket. "I just ain't invulnerable is all."

"Ah reserve the right to be nervous, invulnerable or not." Rogue combed a hand through her hair; the white streaks appeared for a second, then vanished under the dark red waves. Gambit made a mental note to tell her that her hair looked gorgeous like that, some time when she was too busy to hit him. "So where to next? State prison?"

"Pretty high-an'-mighty fo'a girl wearin' stolen shoes," Gambit told her, zipping his jacket closed and heading back into the city.

"What, these things? These ain't been stolen for ages. Ah went back an' paid for 'em as soon as Hank let me outta the house."

"Oh, you're _kiddin'_." Gambit looked down at the canvas sneakers in disappointment. "You paid for 'em?"

"Ah had to. Ah did steal 'em."

Gambit sulked. He'd liked having those shoes around. They were a reminder of the one time he'd managed to talk her into really walking in his world. For a few brief days, she'd been a thief, like him . . . then she'd gone back and paid for the stupid things. She was incurably honest, convinced that things that belonged to other people were somehow sacred. A thief's world, where everything was there to be taken by anyone with nerve to take it, was as foreign to her as Mars. He shook his head. "You . . ."

"Me, what? Ah couldn't just keep 'em without sayin' anything, could Ah?"

"Kinda de point'a stealin' stuff."

"Ah thought the point was to keep ahead'a Mystique without my feet getting cut into spaghetti." Rogue paused, having reached a corner. Remy grabbed her hand and tugged her gently to the right, deftly weaving through the midmorning crowd.

"_Non_. De point is . . ." He trailed off, unsure of how to articulate it. "De point is to be a hunter. T'live by wits an' skill. T'grab life, an'everyt'in dat goes wid it, out from under de nose a'God himself an'have a laugh about it afterward. De point is t'have _fun_."

Rogue laughed, probably more because she thought he was crazy than because she got what he was trying to explain to her. And Remy, recognizing the futility of trying any further, laughed too.

It was probably because he was still laughing that Rogue spotted it first.

"Oh, mah gosh." Her hand closed around his, clamping down with more-than-human strength. "Is that your dad?"

Remy swallowed his laughter, his mood dropping and his heart rate rising in the blink of an eye. He squeezed Rogue's hand back and took a deep breath. "Don' panic," he instructed them both.

Jean-Luc LeBeau was approaching them. The sidewalk was crowded, but through the sea of people he could see his father, long red hair pulled into a ponytail behind his head, old gray coat hanging open on his chest. He walked with the same long, decisive stride, with an air of confidence and power that made other people subconsciously decide to move out of his way. He was moving quickly. He'd pass them in a few moments.

"Don' panic," he repeated, talking without moving his lips. "Don' turn, an' don' avoid 'im. Same pace. Come on. Take a deep breath, relax y'shoulders. When he's right on top of us, look right at him for just a sec, den look away, jus'like any stranger on de street. Don' smile. Don' flinch. Just walk on by."

He straightened his spine and pulled his shoulders back, copying the way Scott stood when he was barking orders in the Danger Room, and made his walk just the slightest bit stiffer. Recognizing a person wasn't about the face: it was all about movement. If he moved like someone else, he'd be invisible. Hopefully. Jean-Luc knew all these tricks. Jean-Luc had taught him every one of them.

_Don'panicdon'panicdon'panic. I'm panicking._

He kept his eyes straight ahead until the last possible second. Then he let them stray sideways onto his father's face.

It was strained. Nights of little sleep and frantic worry had drained the color from his skin, except for semicircles of dark purple under his eyes. His eyes caught Remy's for one moment, then flicked away, uninterested.

Remy tightened his grip on Rogue's arm. "Don'look 'round," he hissed. "Keep walkin'."

He clamped his tongue in his teeth to keep from checking over his shoulder to see if Jean-Luc was looking back. He knew that if the guildmaster had reason to glance back at them, it would mean nothing but trouble, but part of him wished he would anyway. Walking past one's own father without a glimmer of recognition was very like being tossed in a pool of icy water. It stung.

An alley opened on Gambit's left. He veered into it, jerking Rogue with him so abruptly that she forgot to keep her feet on the ground. When she was safely behind him, Gambit fished a makeup compact out of his pocket and held the little mirror out to where he could see the street.

Jean-Luc was still walking away. Remy could see stress in the set of his shoulders, the aggressiveness of his stride.

_Don'worry, _père. _I'll bring Bobby back to you._

He snapped the mirror closed and sagged against the wall, letting out all his breath in one great rush of primal joy at narrowly escaping death. "Didn'notice us. Good job, _chère_."

She sighed and shook her head. "You gonna think Ah'm a sissy if Ah tell you Ah just about fainted?"

"Wouldn't think it even if y'_did_ faint." He smiled at her, then grabbed and hugged her, just to have something to hold onto while he brought down his frantic pulse.

"Remy," she murmured into his jacket. "We can't keep this up forever."

He sighed and scrubbed one hand up and down her back. "I know."

* * *

"Looks like we got here before them," Jean observed, scanning the crowds of people in the street. No sign of Rogue or Gambit yet. "We did decide to meet up at noon, right?"

Logan didn't answer for a moment; he was lighting a cigar. When he had it going, he said, "Not everybody sets their watch ten minutes fast. Give 'em time."

Jean waved a hand in front of her face and coughed, though Logan had considerately stood upwind of her. "Those things are so gross. Do you have to?"

Logan blew a mouthful of smoke away from her. "No. I don't get addicted. But it's a way to pass ten minutes."

"Aren't you worried about setting me a bad example?"

"You're twenty. Any damage I was gonna do has been done. Unless you want a puff?"

"Eew."

"Thought not."

Gambit and Rogue came into view almost immediately thereafter. "Any luck?" Rogue asked, skipping greetings entirely.

Jean shook her head. "The John Does are only being taken to five hospitals, and we've already covered three of them. Nothing so far."

"Day's young," said Gambit optimistically.

"How about you two?"

"Eh, usual. Brush wid death. Left an' answer to de picks—we'll see if anybody starts chattin'."

"Even if nobody chats back, it could still be a lead," said Logan. "We'll go down there tonight and I'll see what scents I can pick up. If somebody's been around Bobby and is checkin' out that spot at the pier, I'll smell it. If we're lucky."

"Yeah," Rogue sighed. "Because we've been so lucky on this trip already."

Gambit chuckled, but he wasn't paying attention to the conversation. His eyes were scanning the street. He relied on his eyes to warn him of approaching danger, just as Jean relied on her telepathy and Logan used his nose and that sixth sense, sometimes bordering on the precognitive, that he causally dismissed as 'instinct.' Rogue, of course, coud afford to be snuck up on.

Jean let him scan. He was the one with all the experince in this town; if trouble was coming, he'd recognize it first. "Well, how about if we—"

Then, without any warning at all, Gambit was gone.

Logan was the first one after him, but Rogue was in the lead in a second. "Feet!" Logan snapped at her as she shot by. She dropped her feet onto the pavement and made a good show of actually running. Jean was the tail end of the team, her mind wide open for stray thoughts about what had set Gabmit off.

"What is it?" Rogue demanded.

"I saw him!" Gambit ran through the crowd with the same head-on recklessness he used driving his motorcycle, missing people by fractions of inches and attracting just the kind of attention he'd been so desperate to avoid. "Right there! Bobby!"

He veered around a corner, the rest of the team hard on his heels. The next street was a side street, a narrow two-lane with only a few people on it. The next cross street was two city blocks away, and on either side were blank brick walls. The only visible doors were near the far end of the block, and there were only three people in sight. None of them looked anything like Bobby LeBeau.

Gambit stopped dead. Rogue ran into him.

"Did you get a good look at him?" Jean demanded, panting to recover her breath as she jogged to a halt next to them.

Gambit shook his head. "_Non_. Just a glimpse. He came around here . . ."

"I'm getting nothin'," said Logan. He snorted, clearing the air out of his nose so he could try again to catch a scent. "Red?"

Jean shook her head. "I'm scanning every psychic impression I can hear for twenty feet. There's no one."

"I _saw_ him," Gambit insisted. "He was _right here_."

"Well, if it was only a glimpse, maybe—"

"Don'patronize me, _Jeanette_," Gambit snapped at her.

Jean shook her head. "I'm not. I believe you. I just . . . I can't hear a thing, Gambit. I don't know what to tell you."

Gambit's eyes roved along the street again, then back to the crowd on the main thoroughfare, then finally to the three X-Men watching him with concern.

No one could think of anything to say.

* * *

Jean made hot chocolate that evening. After another day of next-to-no-progress, she felt they needed it.

Gambit was humming to himself as he poked at the glowing coals at the base of the fire. He didn't seem to realize it until Jean handed him a tin mug of cocoa.

"What's the tune?" she asked, measuring out more hot water for Logan's cup.

"Which?"

"The one you were humming just now."

"Was I?"

Jean hummed a few bars of it as the hot chocolate in the mug mixed itself at her bidding. (She didn't feel like washing spoons this evening; it was too late at night already.)

"Oh, dat." Gambit wrapped both hands around his mug and held it under his face so he could breathe the steam. "Old song is all."

"It's not one Ah know," said Rogue. "Figured Ah must know every song in Louisiana by now."

Gambit smiled to himself, a half-hearted, distracted smile. "Could work at it y'whole life an' not know all de songs in Louisiana. Don'much like dat one, but it's stuck in my head."

"The cure for a song stuck in your head is to sing it all the way through," Jean pointed out. She handed Logan his chocolate and used the last of the hot water to mix one for herself. "So let's hear it."

"Rather not."

"Come on, Gambit. We've all heard you doing the dishes enough times. Please?"

Gambit sighed, took a sip of his hot chocolate, and obliged her.

The song was short by Gambit's standards, only four verses. He sang it with the thick, nasal twang of deep-bayou Cajun French, making the words all but incomprehensible to Jean, who'd been trained to understand Parisian. She caught a few words, though. "_Jolie blonde_? That's 'pretty blonde girl,' right?"

"Sorta. Down here, yo'_blonde_ is y'girl. Don'matter what color her hair is."

"So it's a love song."

"Depressing one," said Rogue.

"You could understand it?"

"Nope. Just I've noticed kind of a pattern."

"She left him," Logan offered. "And he's switching back and forth between griping about how miserable he is and talkin' about how he's gonna find somebody else."

Jean giggled. "Duncan did that when I dumped him."

"You're a cold, heartless girl, Jean Gray."

"Ain'dey all?" asked Gambit rhetorically.

Rogue shot him a worried look. He didn't notice it, but Jean did. When Rogue realized she was being watched, she dropped her eyes defiantly into the fire. Probably started humming in her head, too. Rogue was very territorial about her mind; she didn't like Jean reading it if she didn't have to. Jean respected her wishes, but it was hard when her face was so expressive.

Logan drained the last of his hot chocolate and stood up. "It's late. First thing tomorrow, we'll head for the pier and see if anybody's answered Gambit's message. Even if they haven't, I might be able to pick up a scent. We'll go from there."

"Sounds like a plan." Jean stood up, too. "You guys coming in?"

Gambit shook his head. "Gonna stay out here for a bit. You go on in."

"Me, too," said Rogue.

Jean nodded and followed Logan into the plane, where her mattress and sleeping bag were waiting for her. Her poor abused spine could hardly wait.

"You think you'll be able to pick anything up?" she asked, leaning against the side of the plane as Logan rinsed his mug in the lavatory sink.

"Honestly? No." Logan wiped the mug on his shirt and glanced at her in the small mirror. "If there wasn't anything there when we checked this evening, I don't think there'll be much more in the morning. Safer to drop things off there during the day, when there are people around."

"Well, we'll have to try something else, then."

Logan sighed. "Yeah."

"But?"

"But? But when a person goes missing, the chance of finding them drops every minute that they're gone. If we'd gotten here right after the storm, I'd be more optimistic, but . . . it's been a week. If someone kidnapped Bobby for some kind of reward, somebody'd know about it by now. If there were anything to find, we would have found it."

"We found the picks."

"And they got us nowhere. All they're doing is keeping Gambit here, and I'm starting to think that's what they were meant to do."

Jean pressed her lips together and sent a worried glance out the hatch of the plane. "But Gambit . . ."

"Don't say anything to him yet. It's too early to give up hope completely. But our chances are crap at this point. Just . . . just get ready for it."

Jean nodded. She knew what 'it' she was getting ready for: facing the moment when Gambit realized that his brother was probably dead. "That poor kid. He'll probably never even be buried."

"Well, there's no shame in the sea. As good a place to rest as any. Better than some. He's not the one you need to feel sorry for."

"I know that."

* * *

Logan didn't go to sleep. He sat up in the plane, listening to the crickets and frogs. Neither Gambit nor Rogue came inside. The orange light cast into the plane by the fire faded and died.

When his heightened hearing picked up an unusual rustle outside, he rose from his chair, stepped over the sleeping Jean, and headed down the ramp.

He was just in time. Gambit had almost vanished into the dark.

"Where do you think you're goin'?" Logan asked, sparing a glance for Rogue who lay sound asleep on the mattress she and Gambit had been sitting on. Gambit's denim jacket was tucked around her shoulders.

Gambit stopped and turned, his duster swirling around him. He'd taken out his contacts and his eyes glowed red in the darkness. "Catchin' fireflies."

"You've got a real suspicious-lookin' way of sneakin' off to catch fireflies."

"I got a real suspicious-lookin' way'a doin' everyt'in'."

"That's true." Logan folded his arms across his chest. "You're the one in charge of this mission, y'know. You don't have to sneak anywhere. And I sure would appreciate having some basic info about where you're goin' and when you're comin' back, just 'cause one missing person is enough for me. Call me old-fashioned."

Gambit grinned. "_Non_, dat's good sense. But I can't tell you, Logan. 'M sorry."

"Don't trust me?"

"_Si_, I trust you. More'n I trust a lotta people. But you live in a houseful'a telepaths, an' I can't . . . I _can't_ . . . have dis floatin' around de Institute. I'd lose every'ting."

"You mean you'd lose Rogue."

"_Non._ Rogue knows it all. I wish t'high heaven I'd never told 'er, but I did. She knows. If I don'come back, she'll know why."

"And yet I can't help noticing you waited until she was unconscious before moving yourself out of here."

"Didn'say she liked it. Didn'say I wanted t'make her deal wid it. So let de kid sleep, an'let me go do what I gotta do. Please, Logan."

Reluctantly, Logan nodded. "You better be back by morning. I don't want to explain to the girls why I let you wander off."

"_Moi n'en plus_." Gambit raised his hand in a casual salute. "See y'in hell."

"Save me a spot."

* * *

_Jolie Blonde_ is often referred to as 'the Cajun national anthem.' It's a very popular, very old, VERY Cajun waltz tune.

In French, the name _Jean _is a boy's name, equivalent to the English 'John'. Remy modifies this name into a feminine diminuitive, _Jeanette_. _Jeanette_ is also the title of a French song about a woman who leaves her admirer heartbroken.

_Si_ is a positive answer to a negative question.

_Moi n'en plus_: Me, neither.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Rogue woke three hours later. Of course, she didn't know it was three hours later. All she knew was that it was the dark, ominous middle of the night, the fire was dead, and Gambit was gone.

He could be in the plane, but he wouldn't have gone inside without waking her up and bringing her in too. But he'd left her behind, asleep. Which meant he was going somewhere he didn't want her to know about . . . somewhere he didn't want her to follow.

She knew where.

She knew she should stay exactly where she was. If she followed him, it would end up in misery for her and anything from humiliation to disaster for him. She tried to make herself stay still, to lie quiet in the dark and to not think about Gambit and—

She was in the air and gone before she'd even realized what she was doing.

It had been a year since she'd been to the house on Blood Moon Bayou, but she could never forget the way. It was firmly ingrained in the memories of Julian Boudreaux, which were bouncing around in the back of her mind along with everyone else she'd ever absorbed. Of course, Julian hadn't know how to fly there, so Rogue had to stay low to recognize the landmarks. She wove through the trees, twisting like a fish as she struggled to keep Jean's clothes from catching on stray branches.

The house was in the isolated heart of the bayou, protected by a maze of islands and backwaters. When she'd been there last, there had been water mines everywhere. But now she was fifty times more powerful than she'd been. Water mines didn't matter in the slightest.

The house was overshadowed by heavy, draping trees. Rogue landed in one of them, crouching on a branch where she had a reasonable view of the back door.

All was silence. Maybe Gambit was still coming: it was a long way, even if he had managed to steal a boat or two someplace.

Then something moved in the darkness. Gambit slipped from the shadows and crept toward the house. He threw something, and Rogue heard the clatter of gravel against one of the windows. Before they'd hit the glass, he was invisible again.

He repeated the process four more times before he got a reaction. Someone inside unlatched the window and swung it open. There was a flare of light in the shadow—one of Gambit's cards. It was gone in an instant. The window closed again.

It felt like an eternity, but in reality it was only about ten minutes, before the back door of the house opened.

She was beautiful.

Belladonna Boudreaux walked with the grace and assurance of a queen, her head held high with a fierce kind of pride. Her hair fell in perfect gold ringlets past her shoulder blades, bouncing and swaying as she moved. She was fully dressed, in a loose scarlet shirt with wide, medieval sleeves and jeans that fit like a second skin. She was barefoot, but walked without hesitation, seeming not to feel any obstacles along the ground. She paused in a shaft of moonlight, and Rogue caught a glimpse of fair skin and red, full lips.

There was no way she woke up looking like that, said a spiteful voice in the back of Rogue's mind. She'd planned that entrance. But there was no denying that she was magnificent. Rogue knew it. Bella knew it. And they both knew that Gambit knew it.

She plunged into the darkness, away from the house. Rogue followed as well as she could: Belladonna could move like a shadow. She walked a quarter of a mile through the thick black bayou until she emerged into a clearing. Rogue found another perch, where she crouched, waiting.

He stepped out of the dark, hardly more than a red-eyed silhouette. His arms hung at his sides, and his hands were empty. For a very long minute, the two of them stared at one another, one as beautiful as an angel, the other as frightening as a demon, one bathed in moonlight, the other enveloped in shadow.

Then Belladonna moved. Rogue had never seen anybody move so fast: not Gambit, not Logan, not Mystique. In half a heartbeat, she threw herself at Gambit with a shriek that made a nearby flock of birds lurch awake and take to the sky. There was a sharp crack, so loud and sudden that for one frozen instant Rogue felt sure it had been a gunshot. Bella had struck Gambit across the face.

The force of the blow threw his head sideways, but he didn't raise his hands or stir a step. Bella stared at him for another long minute, then hit him again, this time with her left hand. His head snapped the other way.

"_Cochon,_" she hissed, her bared teeth silver-white in the moonlight, her perfect face livid with fury. "_Meurtrier._"

"Hello, Bella."

She hit him again. Gambit raised his hand to his face to feel the trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth.

"How _dare_ you come back here," she hissed, her voice strained and shaking with fury. "Haven't you done enough to me already?"

"More'n enough. An' I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Sorry? You're sorry?" She spat at the ground in front of his feet. "Your 'sorry' doesn't bring Julian back t'me!"

"I never meant t'hurt you, Belle. You know I never did. If I could change places wid him, I'd do it. In a heartbeat."

"Really? Then let's kill you like you killed him and see if maybe he comes back."

"Dat's yo'right."

Remy lifted his head, exposing his throat to her. For a long second, she watched it, her hunger for his blood raging behind her eyes. Then, without any warning whatsoever, she was in his arms, shaking and choking with furious sobs. "_Mon dieu_ . . . Remy . . ."

Remy held her tight, letting her cry herself out.

"D'you have any idea what you did t'me . . . t'my life . . ."

"I know. I know. It's been hell fo'you, _ma blonde_. I know it has."

"I was gonna get out. I woulda been safe, I woulda been happy . . . den Julian was just _gone_, and it all exploded in my face . . ."

"_Ouais_."

Rogue felt the branch she was holding onto splinter into shards under her hands. She couldn't help it. She'd thought, when Jean and Scott started dating, that she'd experienced jealousy. That hadn't been jealousy. That was annoyance and disappointment. This—the raging, violent misery squeezing her chest and throat—this was jealousy. A beautiful girl she'd never met before was crying on Remy's shoulder, calling him by his name . . . all the little privileges of closeness that Rogue shared with him had belonged to someone else first. She wished ferverently that she'd never come, but she couldn't make herself move.

Bella was more coherent now, her voice steadier and lower. "I'm gonna be guildmistress, Remy. I'm next in line. Everyt'in' Julian was s'posed t'be, it's all me now. I . . . my apprenticeship's over. I'm in de guild now. Dere's no way out, dere's never gonna be a way out, it's all blood an' politics an'nightmares from now until de day I die, and all because of what _you_ did!"

She took a few deep, shaky breaths to calm herself, then pushed away from him and looked into his face. "Why did you come back here?" she demanded, her voice part rage and part heartbreak. "I'm s'posed t'kill you if I see you again. I know how t'do it. I _want_ t'do it." Her right hand strayed up to his face, her fingertips brushing his cheek, before descending to his throat. "You're gonna die if you stay."

He reached up and caught her hand, pressing it between his palms. "I come lookin' for Bobby. When he's safe home, I'll be gone again. Like I was never here."

She gave a short, bitter laugh. "Dat'd be a trick."

"Somebody left his pick case where only I could find it. Somebody wants me t'look for him. You're gonna be de guildmistress, Belle. You know what goes on wid every Ripper in de city. If Marius has Bobby, you'd know about it. So tell me where he is."

Belladonna wrenched her hand from his and pulled back. "You want me to help you? Dat's what you came here for? _Incroyable_. Dat why you killed Julian in de first place, so you could have a guildmistress who'd come at your call an' spit out everyt'in' you want t'know?"

"I wouldn't ask it of you if dere was any other way. But I'm runnin' risks, an' runnin' outta time. I got friends from outside tangled up in dis, an' I can't have another death on my head."

Bella laughed again, and this time her laugh was languid and dark and dangerous. "Friends from outside, you say. Some pretty young thing who'd pull down de stars from de sky if you asked her to? I'm seein' seventeen, mebbe eighteen years old—too young for you, anyway. De sort of girl who plays tough an' hard to get, but you know how to play dat type . . . know how t'make 'em trust you, need you. Y'did it so well wid me. Somebody who wakes up shakin' in de night because she knows deep down in her heart she can't hold you forever . . . can't even touch you . . ."

In one swift movement, Remy grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. His fingers dug into her so hard that his knuckles turned white. "How'd you know dat? _HOW?_"

"A girl y'can't touch, _DB?_ Y'always liked a challenge, but dat's a little over de top, even for you."

"_Who told you_?"

"She did."

She laughed at his confusion and fear, her laughter triumphant now. "You've been outta de gossip chain too long, Remy LeBeau. Ain't heard our big news. Didn't Bobby write an' tell you dat dey's still one mutant left in N'Awlins?"

Remy fell back, his face frozen with shock. "Belle, you . . ."

"Started about a month after you left. Could be de shock of everyt'in' woke it up in me. Mebbe if dat day'd ended differently, it woulda never happened at all. But I started answerin' questions people hadn't asked yet. People I got mad at had headaches for hours. An' when I made my first hit, _I_ _felt him die inside my head_. I kin still hear him screamin' about his wife an'kids, even though I hit him so fast he never had time t'make a sound."

"Belle, listen t'me. I know y'don't want to, but please. I have friends—powerful friends. Dey kin help you. Dey's a girl wid me here, a telepath. She kin show you how t'control it. Dey home's far away, an' so well protected dat both de guilds together could never get at you. I kin still take you away from dis, Belle . . . like I promised I would."

"Don' you talk t'me about _your promises_. You don't get t'save me. It's too late. My family an' my guild need me. I don't belong to myself anymore."

"Telepathy's dangerous. You could hurt yourself. _Please_, Belle. We'll go t'night. Right now. Just say de word."

Bella shook her head. "As if I could ever leave N'Awlins. Besides, your new _blonde_'s already pretty unhappy, an' I wouldn't t'make it worse for her." Her eyes, bright, sapphire blue, flicked up towards the trees and met Rogue's. "Rogue."

Rogue came down. There was nothing else for her to do. She floated down from the trees and landed as lightly as a feather on the damp ground, right foot first. She was embarrassed, and ashamed, and angry, and hurt, and frightened, but she refused to let any of it show on her face. Only pride. She was Rogue of the X-Men, and she could fly. There was nothing in the world that could ever hurt her. Not even Belladonna Boudreaux.

She didn't know it, and wouldn't have believed it, but as she landed she was as terrifying and as beautiful as Belladonna—a dark, fierce princess to Bella's golden queen.

The two young women surveyed one another for a long moment. They'd never met, but their lives were hopelessly intertwined: through Remy, through Julian, through their powers.

"Belladonna," said Rogue. It was part greeting, part observation. So you're Belladonna.

She was very careful not to look at Gambit. After following him here in the middle of the night and then getting herself caught, she had a feeling that 'sorry' just wasn't going to cover it. Instead, she looked at Bella, beautiful and regal, angry and betrayed. "Ah'm so sorry. About Julian."

Bella inclined her head in acknowledgment. "You got a brother?"

Rogue thought of Kurt, lively and silly and sweet. "Yeah."

"Keep him away from Remy."

Rogue didn't have anything to say to this.

Bella turned her head to look at Remy, the rest of her body remaining perfectly still. "You're filth, to bring her to _la ville_ with you. What were you thinking?"

"She wanted t'come, an'I didn'have time t'argue. Bobby was gone. I was in a hurry. Still am, actually. Just tell me where he is, Belle, an'I'm gone. Never have t'see me again, if dat's what you want."

"If dat was all I wanted, I'd just kill you right now."

"Try it," challenged Rogue, shifting her weight forward and narrowing her eyes.

Remy held out a hand to stop her, but he didn't take his eyes off Bella. "Take it easy, _chère_. We ain't here t'fight." He flicked his fingers, beckoning her to him. Rogue came, letting him take her hand and pull her slightly behind him. "Bella, you got every reason in de world t'hate me an'not a one t'help me. I know it. But Bobby never done a thing t'hurt you, an' whatever's happening t'him, he ain't the one who deserves it. So if you need t'pay me back fo'dat day, I'm here. But first just tell me where Marius is keepin' Bobby. I just want t'let him go home. Dat's all."

Bella raised one perfect eyebrow. "Dat's all?"

"Mostly." A smile snuck onto his face. "An' I wanted t'see you again. See if you were all right."

"I'm not. An'de only thing dat could make my life worse right now, Remy LeBeau, is you."

"Den we'll go. Just tell me where Bobby is."

"Why should I?"

"'Cause we were friends, once? 'Cause you were my wife, once?"

"If you knew what was good for you, you wouldn't be bringin' dat up."

"I cared about you. I still do. An' if dere was any way I could change what happened dat day, I'd do it. But right now you de only person I kin turn to, so I'm askin' you, Belladonna, please. Please help me."

She turned away from him in a furious swirl of scarlet sleeves and golden curls and headed back towards the house in long, perfect strides. A few yards away, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. Remy watched her, unmoving, Rogue's hand still held tightly in his.

"We don't have Bobby," she announced. "No idea where he is. _Papa_'s frantic, 'cause he t'inks Jean-Luc's gonna launch a strike against us t'get him back. Some'a de boys are talkin' about strikin' first. If he don't turn up soon, dead or alive, it's gonna be war between de guilds. So if you kin find him, do it."

Gambit nodded. "_Merci_¸ Belle."

"You kin take your _merci_ an' shove it." She whipped around again, her body twisting as gracefully as a cobra's, and extended one slender finger to point straight at Rogue while her eyes met Gambit's. "I hope you love her, Remy. I hope you love her _à la folie_, 'cause havin' a man like you under slow torture like dat is better'n any revenge I coulda come up wid."

Then she was gone.

Rogue expected him to let out his breath, as he had when they'd narrowly escaped Jean-Luc that morning. He didn't. He just stood still, his breathing low and even, watching the spot where she'd disappeared. Rogue couldn't bring herself to move an inch, or say a word.

Then his hand resettled around hers, feeling it to assure himself that it was still there, and turned away from the clearing. The shadows swallowed them up.

_A better revenge._ _Slow torture. _Rogue felt her hand try to squirm out of his, as though it knew that at any second both her glove and his would vanish. Belladonna seemed almost like the sort of person who could make something like that happen. Remy refused to let her go.

"Don'let her wind you up," he warned. "She's good at gettin' in people's heads. She'll be a holy terror now she's a telepath."

"Ah . . ." She choked, tripped, and struggled to recover both her feet and her voice. "Ah'm sorry."

"What's done's done," said Remy, offering neither condemnation nor forgiveness. "I got what I came for."

What he came for. Only now, for the first time, did Rogue see what he could have been coming back to. The guilds of New Orleans weren't just two-bit crime families like she'd thought. They sovereign nations unto themselves, and Gambit had been their prince. He'd been a _prince, _with a woman like that for his own, and now he was a nameless high school student with nothing but a handicapped, surly goth of a girl. She was no longer worried that she might be second-best in his eyes; she simply wondered how she could ever have thought that she was anything else. She wished frantically that he would let her go. _Slow torture. I hope you love her._

And still no Bobby.

"Give us a lift back?" Gambit asked.

Rogue nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She freed her hand at last so she could fit her arm around his back and raise him off the ground.

She didn't know what to say. She didn't even know if there would ever again be anything worth saying.

When they reached the plane, something was beeping.

_Cochon:_ Pig.

_Meutrier_: Murderer.

_Mon dieu: _My God.

_Incroyable_: Unbelieveable.

_à la folie_: Madly; like crazy; until it drives you insane.


	15. Chapter 15

* * *

Chapter 15

* * *

Jean lurched awake, confused and disoriented. _What's that?_

"It's the video phone, and will you get outta my head?" snapped Logan.

_Sor . . ._ "Sorry." Jean kicked and squirmed, trying to extricate herself from the sleeping bag, before giving up and feeling for the zipper. "Who is it? And what time is it? And _where_ are Gambit and Rogue?" _Rogue, where are you?_

_Coming!_

Logan swung into the co-pilot's seat and activated the screen. "What's going on?" he demanded of it. "It better be important. If I don't get my beauty sleep, I'm cranky all day."

"That explains a great deal," said Professor Xavier dryly from the screen. "Logan, I need you home. Right now."

"Done," said Logan. "Red, tell 'em to hurry up." His hands flew to the controls, powering up the engines. Lights flared in the cabin. "What's happened?"

"I'll explain when you get here. Only hurry. The students . . ."

"We're as good as there. Hang on, Charles."

Jean squeezed her eyes shut so she could concentrate on telepathy. _Hurry up, you guys!_

_Gangway!_

In a blur of color and wind, Rogue shot into the plane. Gambit, being subject to gravity, stumbled against the bulkhead, but Rogue was almost instantly hanging over Logan's shoulder. "What's goin' on?"

"Strap in. We're takin' off."

"What?" Gambit demanded. "What about Bobby?"

"Sorry, Cajun. The Prof says we gotta fly."

"We cain't just leave!" Rogue protested. "Not now! You and Jean go back; we'll stay—"

"The Professor's your legal guardian, Stripes. You don't have a choice."

"I do!" Gambit snapped. "An' I ain't leavin' here widout my brother."

"Gambit, your brother is dead. I'm sorry. He probably got hit on a head by a piece of debris and got washed out into the gulf. The team needs us right now." The hatch gave a pneumatic hiss and raised off the ground.

Gambit shook his head. "_Non_. I ain't goin'."

"If you don't come home, yeh'll break your contract," said Rogue. "The professor wouldn't have to let you come home."

"Dat's my risk to take."

"Gambit," said Jean, reaching for his sleeve, "I'm so sorry. Really, I am."

"Much appreciated," said Gambit.

And then he jumped out of the plane.

He made it look much easier than it could possibly have been. He simply jumped at the rising hatch, grabbed the edge, swung himself over it, and disappeared. The corner of his coat whipped out of sight after him.

Rogue ran after him, but the gap was already too small for her to fit through. "Gambit!"

"I be okay, _chère_," Gambit called through the ever-thinning gap. "Don'worry. You just fly away home, like you promised. Now's de time. Go help 'em at de house. _Adieu._"

"It's his choice, Rogue," Jean reminded her. "Calm down. The sooner we get home and settle whatever happened, the sooner we can come back for him. Now come on. Sit down and buckle up."

"Get clear!" Logan roared. "We're going up!"

"_Ouais!_" The door fitted into the side of the plane, cutting off anything else he might have said. Logan waited for a count of five, then activated the VTOL engines. The plane wobbled and shook as it rose into the air. Jean and Rogue lurched for their seats.

"We'll come back for him," Jean told her, shoving the buckle of her seatbelt closed. "I promise, Rogue."

Rogue shook her head, her face and her mind both blank with shock. "Don't promise me anything."

* * *

Gambit stood in the bayou and watched the X-Jet take off. Rogue was going home, maybe forever. Better for her that way. He didn't want her to have to go through any of this anymore.

He had come full-circle, and was back at the beginning. If he turned his head, he'd see his father, face pale from days of captivity, eyeing him with that intolerable look of hungry speculation. The last year, the wedding, Julian, Rogue, Sinister, the Institute, the storm, all of it, might just as well never have happened.

Except, of course, that it all had, and now he had to deal with it alone.

_Rogue, Rogue, Rogue . . . you're all I got in the world, chère. Don't fly away from me. Not now. Please._

He was never going to get a chance to explain to her about Bella. Which could end up being all right, in the long run. He'd no idea what he would have said anyway. Maybe this way was better.

He closed his coat and turned up his collar. Time to get going. Later would be soon enough to worry about what he'd say to Rogue, if he ever saw her again. One problem at a time. He turned and headed for the city.

It was late. The streets were quiet and empty, which was good. It meant fewer people to risk running into. Gambit watched the dirty pavement go by under his feet, one step at a time.

What if Bobby really was dead? Remy wasn't stupid; he knew it had always been possible, even likely. But he didn't want to believe it. He didn't want his brother to be dead. He didn't want the guilds going to war. He didn't want Bella to be left all alone, with no one except Marius and her swarm of bloodthirsty cousins. He didn't want his father to grow old and die as the last of the LeBeaus. He didn't want to have thrown away his life at the Institute for nothing.

It was a measure of how exquisitely miserable he was that he didn't notice the assassins until they were right on top of him.

The fight was entirely one-sided. He was outnumbered by people who'd known him, and how he fought, his entire life. He didn't even know the scuffle had started until his coat was off his shoulders and out of his reach, taking his staff and cards with it. They knew where he kept his weapons.

Of course, they didn't know everything. He'd picked up a few tricks in the year since he'd left this place behind. The second he realized what was happening, he tried one of Logan's favorite moves: dropping as low as he could manage without losing his balance and then lunging fists-first at the first opponent that tripped over him. This turned out to be Jean Michel McGee, who'd knocked out one of Gambit's loose teeth in a fistfight when he'd been six. Gambit finally got him back by knocking out a few of his.

Unfortunately, by the time he'd done that, Bertrand Boudreaux had grabbed him from behind. Bertrand had been Julian's right-hand man, and would probably have been second in command of the guild if Julian had lived. Bella hated him. Everybody did, really. But he was stocky and powerful, and his grip squeezed half the air out of Gambit's lungs.

Gambit pulled both feet off the ground and lashed them at the first thing that moved—Chris Broussard, who never said anything but quietly and deliberately ended up with what he wanted. Gambit got one foot around his head and used the other to kick him in the face. The impact pushed Bertrand backward; he tripped and fell, loosening his grip on Gambit, who squirmed away like a snake.

Ben Broussard, Chris's younger brother, jumped on him and pinned him to the ground just like he'd done in countless Pinchers-versus-Rippers football matches when they'd all been twelve and thirteen. Gambit could escape, but not fast enough. Everyone else was on top of him in an instant, grabbing his feet, his arms, his hair, hurting him and immobilizing him as he squirmed against the damp pavement, searching for grip or leverage anywhere.

Bertrand seized his short brown hair in both hands and pulled, wrenching his head farther back than it was meant to go. Gambit cried out, more in a futile attempt to summon help than in pain. He was going to die. These people, with whom he'd grown up, were going to kill him. And Rogue was miles away. She wouldn't even know until long after it was over. He wished he could be as lucky.

"Welcome home, Remy," Bertrand snarled. Then ether vapors poured into his mouth and nose and he knew no more.

* * *

He woke up in chains.

His arms were in terrific pain. There was a manacle around each of his biceps, just above the elbows, holding his arms up above his head. His entire weight was hanging from them, his toes scuffing uselessly against the floor.

He got his feet underneath him and stood up, restoring blood circulation to his forearms and hands. They started to burn with pins and needles, and a trickle of blood ran down his left arm and went tickling along his side. His shirt was gone. His shoes were gone. Though he could stand on his feet, his ankles were chained. He could taste blood and bile inside his mouth. And no matter how he twisted, he couldn't touch anything except himself. Not the chains, not the wall—nothing useful. Someone had thought this out.

He recognized the room. It was the same blank upstairs room where the Rippers had kept Jean-Luc during his brief kidnap escapade. An irreverent corner of Remy's mind wondered what they used this room for when it wasn't holding captured LeBeaus—sparring? Storing extra furniture? You could rig up a projector, bring in some beanbags, and make a theater out of it. Amara and Ray had been talking about doing that in the Danger Room some night, as though the mansion's tv wasn't big enough. What day was it? Thursday? He was supposed to make dinner on Thursday. He was going to make prawns etoufées, and make them too spicy so Scott would have a coughing fit at the table. He'd been looking forward to that.

Though he knew no Ripper would be so stupid as to chain someone to the insulation, he tried tugging all of his chains anyway. Each one was bolted to the studs of the wall. Why, _why_ hadn't his blasted genetic code given him even a little bit of super-strength?

_No way out._

He tried not to think about it. In torture, it was the stress and the uncertainty, more than the pain, that wore you down. So he thought about other things, about how Storm had promised to fill the pool up this weekend if it stayed warm out, about how the rear tire of his motorcycle needed air, about how he really should to toss his duster in the wash as soon as he got home.

_Never going back. Going to die here_.

He still hadn't finished the rough draft of his English essay. Not even halfway through. He wouldn't have to bother, now. That was comforting.

The door opened. Remy felt his heart contract painfully inside his chest, his body tensing for the pain that he knew was coming. He struggled to relax—tensing up would only make everything worse. Then again, maybe it would make the ordeal end sooner.

Bella stood in the doorway, framed in golden light from the hall. Her arms hung at her sides and her beautiful face was blank and calm.

Remy looked back at her. He could feel a trickle of blood running from under his hair, across his forehead and down his nose. It itched.

"Did you do this?" His voice held no condemnation.

She shook her head. "A friend'a Ben's heard you yellin' about Bobby in de street. Been keepin' an eye out for you ever since."

Remy nodded. That was good. It was only fitting that this failure be his fault and not hers. She'd never asked for any of this.

She could let him go. He could get out of the house and into the bayou, walk and swim away from the city, find a pay phone somewhere in Mississippi and call the Institute. He could live to see the sun rise tomorrow.

"Let me go." It was not a request, but a plea, too feeble to even deserve the rising inflection of a question. He knew she wouldn't do it.

She shook her head. One golden curl snaked over her shoulder and hung dancing down her chest.

"Kill me."

Another shake of the head.

"Forgive me."

There was no head shake this time. She just looked at him for one long, weary moment, then turned away and shut the door behind her, leaving him in the dark.

* * *

Awkward silence reigned in the X-Jet. Logan stayed focused on the controls, his expression fixed and grim. Behind him, Rogue had taken off the shoe with the tear in it and was picking at the frayed fibers. Jean, after a few attempts to get Rogue to talk, had given up and was staring out the window at the star-strewn night above and around them and tried not to think about Gambit, alone in the middle of the night.

_Help me! Telepath, help me! Can you hear me? Help!_

The panic hit her like a punch in the stomach. Though she knew it didn't belong to her, she could feel her body reacting to it, making her heart race and her hands tremble. The voice became more insistent inside her head, pressing on her consciousness and scattering her own thoughts. This was an inexperienced telepath, one who didn't know how to separate thoughts from feelings or control the level of intensity with which she reached into another mind. It _hurt_.

Jean felt her back arch, her body straining against the straps that held her in the chair. A cry of pain forced itself out of her throat. _I can hear you! Calm down! You're hurting me!_

"Red?" Logan reached across the aisle and seized her arm. "What's wrong?"

_They've got him and I don't know what to do oh sacré he said there was a telepath can you hear me?_

"Another telepath," Jean choked out. "She doesn't know what she's doing . . . she's scared." _Calm down. Who are you?_

_Beautiful. Beautiful lady. Belle dame. Bella donna. Bella. I need the girl with the deadly skin, the Rogue, his Rogue_

"Rogue, she wants you."

Rogue was out of her seat in a second, hovering in front of Jean and staring at her like someone waiting for the picture to clear up on a t.v. with a bad connection. "Ah'm here, Bella."

_She's here. She knows you._

_Tell her they have him. He came back, and he's caught, and I can't do anything. The laws—I'm outnumbered—war in New Orleans—but he can't die, not like this—_

"She says they have him. She doesn't want him to die . . ." _You mean Gambit?_

Rogue swore. Then she shot like a bullet out of the plane.

She left a two-foot hole in the fuselage, and the raging wind outside immediately sucked out everything that wasn't bolted down. Jean's hair flew everywhere, including into her eyes and down her throat, and the air grew thinner by the second. Struggling to clear the red tangle off of her face, Jean reached out and covered the hole with a telekinetic shield. The pressure difference strained against the blockage, but she concentrated and held the barrier. The voice of the other telepath was distant and confused now; she didn't seem to have the power to keep the conversation up for long, and Jean didn't have concentration to spare for her.

Logan was wrestling with the controls as the plane recoiled from Rogue's sudden takeoff. The altimeter went spinning down, then steadied as the jet found level flight again. With his left hand, Logan grabbed for the comm controls. "Charles, it's Logan. We have to double back. Rogue just took off. We're going back for her. You're just going to have to manage by yourselves up there."

The professor's voice was crackly as it fought through interference to reply. "_What_ are we going to have to manage by ourselves? What's happening?"

"Rogue bailed out. She's going back to get Gambit."

"What in the world did you leave him for?"

"You . . . you called us, an hour ago. You said there was trouble."

"Logan, I was asleep an hour ago. I never called you. We're all fine here."

Logan looked up and caught Jean's eyes. She could feel her eyes widening as the pieces fit into place.

"That filthy _shapeshifter!_" Logan snarled. "Call you back, Charles." He hit the comm panel with a closed fist, making it spit sparks, and wrenched the steering yoke sideways. The plane tipped hard.

"Didn't you wink before you talked?" Jean demanded as she clung to the harness holding her in place. .

"Didn't I _what_?"

"Gambit's sign and countersign to make sure Mystique couldn't sneak into the Institute. They didn't tell you about that?"

"Why would they? I don't need one. That was supposed to be a secure comm channel. That _was_ a secure comm channel!"

"There was a bird in here last night," Jean remembered. "It was sitting on the control panel. It woke me up. I didn't think about it, but it was a big, black bird—"

"A raven," Logan finished for her. "How long can you hold that hole closed?"

"Long enough. Gun it."

* * *

_Adieu _is, as far as I know, the only French expression of farewell that doesn't carry a suggestion of meeting again.


	16. Chapter 16

* * *

Chapter 16

* * *

Rogue had to keep her eyes slitted shut to protect them from the roaring wind that tore across her body. It brought tears to her eyes, which she left behind her like a trail of raindrops. At this height, and this speed, even she was cold.

She knew that she'd damaged the plane. She didn't care. All she cared about in the world was getting back to New Orleans. Remy had said the Assassins would get creative, take their time with him. She still had time. It was time measured in Remy's blood, but it was time nonetheless.

_Hold on, Remy. Please. Hang on until I can get there_.

It should have been her. She could have borne it. Torture was a joke when your skin was stronger than steel. But Gambit was, in so many ways, only human. No matter how brave he was, there was only so much he could take.

The endless, tiresome hours she'd spent practicing arial navigation with Storm were paying off. She found Polaris in the glittering sky above her and kept it behind her on the right. New Orleans was where the Mississippi River met the Gulf of Mexico. As long as she kept going southwest, she'd find it.

She found the river first, one broad, languid band of glossy blackness snaking across the land below. Rogue dropped until she was skimming along the surface, the wind of her passage leaving a wake of foam behind her, then climbed again to where she could pick up speed without running into anything.

She saw Lake Pontchartrain first. The city itself was only moderately easy to see; only a few neighborhoods had power. But the river and the lake were enough to guide her. She sailed over the city, far past the few twinkling lights, and dropped down into the gray-green canopy of Blood Moon Bayou. From there, Julian's memories and her own forays to the house could guide her.

The Boudreaux house was lit up. There was still no power, but candles and lamps blazed from every window, and Rogue could hear the babble of voices within. Some were cheerful, some angry, some speaking French, others English. She didn't know how large the Assassin's Guild was, but she would bed that at least half of it was in that house tonight, celebrating the capture of Remy LeBeau. Sick.

She circled the house, trying to remember where they'd kept Jean-Luc, combing through Julian's distasteful memories for anywhere else they might be using as Remy's prison. It was hard to think. She could feel herself lapsing into panic, then struggling back to calm, like riding in a small boat on rough water. _Stay cool. Concentrate._

"Rogue?"

Rogue jumped. Not a mile, but a good seven feet in the air. She twisted, her hands clenched into fists, ready to beat the living daylights out of anything and anyone that dared to sneak up on her right now.

There was a boy in the shadows. No, not a boy—a young man, who looked younger at first glance than he probably really was. He'd jumped, too, and was sheltering behind the trunk of one of the gnarled, ancient trees. "It's okay!" he hissed. "I'm a friend."

Rogue dropped to the ground again. As he emerged into the brighter shadows, she saw a head of scruffy ash-blond hair, a thin, clever face, and a dramatic scar that ran under his ear and across his shoulder . . .

"Bobby?"

Although he didn't answer, in one more second there was no mistaking him. "Oh, _Bobby!_" Rogue gasped, grabbing his shoulders and giving him a welcoming, admonishing, rather-too-enthusiastic shake. "Oh, mah _gosh! _Where've you _been? _We've been lookin' everywhere for ya—Gambit's half out of his mind worryin' . . . they've got him, he's in there, and what are we gonna do?"

"We can't do anything here," Bobby told her, gently removing her hands from his shoulers and working them to make sure she hadn't dislocated anything. "If we try t'get him out, dey'll just kill him. Gotta come at it another way."

"We ain't got time to come at it another way! They're _killin' _him, Bobby!"

"Dey torturin' him. Different. Takes longer. We got time t'go get reinforcements."

"Who're we gonna get? The Thieves' Guild can't help. They'll violate the treaty. My people could never get here in time."

"I know somebody. But we gotta hurry. We got time t'get help, or time t'argue, but not time t'do both. So come on!"

Rogue glanced back at the house again. There was music now. They were torturing Gambit to death in that place, and it was a party. Then she nodded and turned away. "Okay, let's go."

* * *

Remy and Bertrand stared at one another. Bertrand was holding a willow rod, the sort of strong, pliable branch that had been used to whip lazy schoolchildren back in the day. It wasn't lethal. It wasn't even particularly painful. But it stung, and it kept coming, and there was nothing Remy could do about it.

With a hiss and a snap, the rod lashed across his face. "You killed my cousin," Bertrand announced. Another lash fell across his chest, leaving a faint red line and a fine thread of scarlet blood. "You insulted my guild." Another one across his left shoulder. "You ignored your banishment."

The lash was aimed for his right shoulder this time, but Bertrand swung too wide. It brushed the palm of Remy's hand in its descent. With such a brief contact, he couldn't give it much charge, but it still exploded with enough of a bang to give the old house a good shaking. Splinters of burning wood scorched his face and arms. "I broke your stick, too."

Bertrand seethed. There were several holes in his shirt where the synthetic fibers had melted in the heat of the blast. He made a fist and drove it into Remy's stomach, forcing all the air out of his lungs and leaving him gasping.

Choking as he struggled for breath, Remy grinned. "Julian would'a had me screamin' by now."

"No hurry," Bertrand retorted. "We got all night, an' all day tomorruh. Nobody knows y'here but us. You'll scream."

"_Bonne chance_. Y'ain't half de Ripper Julian was, an' he wasn't much. Y'all just a buncha stinkin' inbred backwater has-beens anyway. Tryin' to torture a professional when y'couldn't kick a puppy."

Bertrand hit him again, but that was fine. Remy had the upper hand as long as he was the calm one. Torture was all about power.

At least he'd die smug. It was important to see the bright side of these things.

* * *

There was no way in heaven or in Earth that Rogue was going to submit to a walking pace, so she and Bobby flew over the bayous down towards the coast. The Gulf of Mexico stretched out ahead of them, shining in the starlight.

"Where've you been?" she asked again, only part of her brain focused on navigating according to his directions. "What happened?"

"It's all kind of a mess," Bobby told her apologetically. "I'm still workin' it out. Don't remember a lot."

"Yeah, Ah've been there. But did you leave those picks for us?"

"Yeah, dat was me. Set down right dere." He pointed to a spot where the land met the water, bowing trees giving way to whispering fields of water grasses. A motorboat was tied up to one low-hanging branch.

Rogue set him down in the stern and untied the line that secured the boat in place. "You know, we kin just skip the boat."

"No way. Gonna need it later."

Rogue gave in. "Need a push?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Bobby kept his right hand on the tiller and his left on the side of the boat as Rogue pushed the boat out of the shallow, grassy water and out onto the bay. Once they were clear of the plants, he gunned the engine and Rogue hopped in.

They went zipping across the bay, the prow of the boat raising up out of the water from their speed. The night was cool and quiet, and the water was smooth except for the long, churning V of their wake spinning out behind them. The water was dotted with buoys, marking underwater obstacles, and one or two cargo freighters still waiting for the docks to be running at full capacity again. Out in the open water, far from the mouth of the river, was the black, ominous bulk of an oil rig.

It was towards this that Bobby steered. The rig stood on a forest of metal pylons, well out of the water. On the landward side, a long rope ladder dangled down into the waves.

Bobby pulled the boat up next to the ladder and scrambled into the bow to tie it off on a hole in one of the metal legs. He scrambled up the ladder with the agility of a rat, almost more quickly and gracefully than Gambit could have managed. Rogue skipped the ladder and flew up onto the deck.

"Dis way," Bobby instructed, his voice almost inaudible over the murmur of the sea. He veered away from the massive drilling equipment and headed for a door that led into the interior of the rig. Rogue expected the door to be locked, but it opened easily to the pressure of Bobby's right hand. He reached across to the left wall and found a light switch, activating a succession of dim, bare bulbs that extended along the gray metal corridor.

It had been a good thing, really, that the door was unlocked. Bobby's lockpicks were still with Remy, in the hands of the Rippers now. Rogue clamped her tongue in her teeth to keep herself focused and calm as her thoughts strayed back to what was going on in that house. She forced herself to think about something else: sitting at their campsite with Gambit, hidden and safe, with him examining his treasured 'clue' that had to be Bobby's because the picks . . . the picks were in backwards . . .

Rogue bent down and pulled off her shoe.

"Bobby, catch!"

She tossed the shoe to him, an easy, arcing throw. Bobby turned and caught it, bewilderment on his face and the shoe in his right hand.

She grabbed his shirt in both hands and threw him with brutal, superhuman force against the wall of the corridor. Before he could even gasp back the air she'd knocked out of him, she had him pinned. "Here's somethin' you don't know, _Mom,_" she snarled, pressing on the ribcage until she felt the bones strain. "Bobby LeBeau is left-handed."

"Very good, Rogue," said a new voice. It was an unmistakeable voice, elegant and calm and articulate, low and politely chilling. "You always were a clever girl."

Rogue stepped away from her prisoner and turned to face the new threat. "Sinister."

* * *

Remy screamed. He couldn't help it. White fire was tearing through his body. It only lasted a few seconds, but it left him collapsed in his chains, shaking and struggling to breathe. Sweat ran off his forehead and chest, even though the room was cold, stinging when it dripped into his eyes and the welts and cuts that crisscrossed his skin.

Marius was handling the electric shocks. He was good at them. But despite his best efforts, the next one blacked Remy out.

_The highway stretched out in front of them, barren and bleak. Bobby killed the engine on the car and climbed out. Remy followed him, more out of habit than because he could really do anything right now. He was still in shock._

_"Got your picks?" Bobby demanded._

_Remy felt for the inside pocket of his coat. He barely remembered changing out of his tux, but he was certainly in everyday clothes now. The pick case was where it was supposed to be. "Yeah."_

_"And dat staff?"_

_That one was in the long pocket at the side of his coat. He could feel the weight of it. "Yeah."_

_"Any cash?"_

_He'd left his wallet behind at the house, in the suitcase he'd packed for his honeymoon. "No. No id, either."_

_Bobby pressed his lips together, sighing. "Can't go back for 'em now."He fished in his pockets, checking every one before finally finding a wad of crumpled bills. He smoothed them out and flicked through them; it was less than twenty dollars. "It'll get you on de road, anyway," he sighed, stuffing it into Remy's breast pocket. "Sooner you can get over de state line, de better off you gonna be."_

_He was leaving home with nothing but the clothes on his back, one or two tools, and a couple of dollars in cash. He'd done this once before, but it had been different then. He'd been young, and frustrated, itching for trouble and adventure. Now all he wanted in the world was to go home. _

_"You gonna be all right?" Bobby demanded. "You look like crap."_

_Remy tried to smile. "I bet." He nodded, to comfort his brother and convince himself. "I'll get by. You take care'a Père. An' tell Belle . . ." He stopped and shook his head. "Don'tell her anythin'."_

_Bobby nodded. "When you get away, you write me. Just a postcard or somethin'. Just lemme know you're okay, okay? I don't care if dey banish you to de moon. You still _mon frère_. An' if you need me, I come runnin'."_

_Remy nodded. Not that he'd ever ask Bobby to come with him. Bobby had to stay here. Somebody did. _

_Bobby hugged him. Remy hugged back. They both knew that they were never going to see one another again. _

_"Good luck."_

_"You too."_

_Then Bobby jumped in the car, swung around, and sped away, leaving Remy alone on the long, barren freeway._

Cold hit his face. Someone was holding ice to his skin to wake him up. He was thirsty.

'You'll stay awake 'till this is finished, Pincher filth," Marius ordered. "You're gonna suffer everything we've suffered since the day you killed my son."

Gambit licked his lips. It didn't help much; his tongue stuck to them. "I know dis gonna be a shock to ya, Marius, but nobody ever liked Julian. Nobody but you. So you take out y'own sufferin's on me, but leave de rest'a de guild out of it. Dey glad he's dead."

The white fire surged through him again.

* * *

A super-powered teenage girl, an unscrupulous shapeshifter, and a polite mad scientist shared a moment of awkwardness.

Mystique, now wearing her own form, was between Rogue and the way out. Sinister was between her and the way forward. Of course, that didn't mean much. Any time she wanted, she could plow straight up through the ceiling and be gone. But neither of them was stupid enough to try to kidnap her simply by force.

The silence stretched. Rogue got fed up with it first.

"You're workin' for _him_?" she demanded, glaring at Mystique. "What's _wrong_ with you? You're outta prison for what, a month, and you find yourself the first scumbag that comes along to watch your back—"

"Mystique had obligations to fulfill," Sinister cut in. He was dressed as professionally and expensively as he'd been when Rogue had first met him, his glossy black hair slicked away from his unnaturally pale forehead. His arms hung at his sides, unthreatening. "She and I have been associates for quite a long time. If it makes you feel any better, it was I who first approached her, not the other way around."

Rogue's eyes darted back and forth between the two of them, knowing from experience how fast each could move and how hard each could hit. Her brain was flying to put the pieces all together. "You're the connection," she realized, studying Mystique's fierce black-and-yellow eyes, brighter than Gambit's but somehow colder, less human. "Logan said there had to be a tie between Sinister and Magneto, 'cause what Sinister did to those Morlock kids he couldn't have done without knowing about what happened to . . . oh, mah gosh, you didn't. You did _not_ sell Kurt to this guy."

"I needed what he had," said Mystique unapoligetically. "Sinister was willing to pay a lot for Magneto's experimentation records. The exchange didn't do Kurt any harm."

"You think what Sinister did to those poor little kids didn't hurt Kurt? You think kidnappin' Bobby didn't hurt Kurt? Or _me_?" She swivelled to turn her glare back to Sinister. "'Cuz Ah know you took him, you twisted lunatic."

"Yes," Sinister admitted. "I did."

"Where is he?"

"He's in the Gulf Oaks Hospital Intensive Care Unit, Biloxi, Mississippi. I thought it best to keep him out of the muddle."

"Intensive care? What's wrong with him?"

"He ingested a number of chemicals that induced a temporary coma. Just for simplicity's sake, you understand; nothing deadly. He'll be coming around soon."

"So he's okay?"

"He is perfectly fine."

"And what about Gambit?"

"Now that is an excellent question. Mystique, where _is_ Gambit? I expected you to have him here by now."

Mystique shook her head. "The Assassins got to him before I could. They have him."

Sinister nodded. "Well, that makes things awkward. I had counted on having a hostage by now. How inconvenient. Mystique, I'm growing increasingly annoyed at your inability to do what I ask of you."

"You wanted Rogue," Mystique announced, her voice harsh and cold. "Here she is."

"And how do you propose I keep her cooperative? You've seen for yourself how powerful she's become. She can tear her way out of here the moment she grows bored with eavesdropping on our conversation."

"No kiddin'," Rogue snapped. "I got better things to do right now than listen to the pair of you. 'Scuse me." She shoved her way past Mystique and headed for the door. Turning her back on Mystique and Sinister, leaving them without finding out what they wanted and stopping them from obtaining it, went against everything her experience and her training had taught her. But she was alone, she was unarmed, and Gambit was in trouble. As huge a problem as this was, it wasn't her biggest problem right now.

"They'll kill him, Rogue," Mystique called after her. "They'll slit his throat the moment they know you're coming."

"You don't know that," Rogue snapped. But her feet stopped underneath her.

"I'm the most expensive freelance killer-for-hire in the world," Mystique announced—not boasting, just stating fact. "I make it a point to know my competition. They'll kill him, and they'll do it fast. If you try to save him, they'll kill you, too. There's enough firepower in that house to take out the entire Institute."

Rogue whipped around. "This comin' from the woman who snuck outta SHIELD and then hung around for two weeks pretending to be her own doctor!"

"That was drastically different."

"How? How'd you even do it?"

"I had a get-out-of-jail-free card."

"A concoction of mine," offered Sinister. That man never could resist the urge to show off. "It was based on the genetic sequence of a leech I met many years ago . . . like you, but significantly less powerful."

"So, like, what? You took a drug that let you absorb people?"

"She injected her doctor with a serum that forced her powers onto him. Temporarily. She bartered it from me a long time ago, in exchange for the records of Magneto's experiments on Kurt Wagner. With that formula in hand, no prison in the world could have held her forever."

_No prison in the world._ Rogue turned her back on Mystique and faced Sinister. "You got any more of that stuff?" she demanded.

"Yes, I have several doses of the base compound in my lab."

"So give it to Gambit!"

"My powers wouldn't help him now, Rogue," Mystique told her, laying one hand on her shoulder. Rogue shrugged it off.

"Not you!" she snapped, tossing the words contemptuously behind her. "Me!" She focused on Sinister again. "Give him me. Ah could bust outta that house easy. Can you do it?"

"Rogue!" Mystique snapped.

Sinister nodded. "With the base compound and your blood, I can make a serum like the one I gave to Mystique, to transfer your powers to someone else."

"So you make it," Rogue ordered. She twisted to glare at Mystique. "And you take it to him. You can get in."

"It's a good plan," said Sinister approvingly. "Well-considered. It may work. But you're forgetting one very important thing: I have no reason to help you. What will you give me in exchange for my assistance?"

"What do you want?"

"I wanted Gambit as a hostage to ensure your cooperation in my experiments—"

"Done."

"Rogue!" Mystique snapped again.

"DONE!" Rogue screamed. "They're torturing him; they're killing him! Get him out of there and Ah'll do whatever you want. Word of honor. Just get to work!"

Sinister made a gesture that was not quite a nod and not quite a bow, then stood aside and waved her down the passage. "If you'd care to step into my laboratory, miss."

Rogue went where he indicated. She could hear Mystique's soft footsteps following after her.

Sinister had converted a large room—what was probably a rec room or cafeteria for the tanker's crew—into a laboratory nearly identical to the one he'd assembled underneath Bayville. Unlike the hallway, this room was brightly lit. An exam table sat in the middle of the room, under a large hanging lamp. "Have a seat," Sinister offered, indicating the table. He stripped off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, so he could scrub his hands and forearms clean.

Mystique stood by the side of the door, arms crossed, leaning all her weight on one leg in a deceptively casual stance. Her face was blank.

"I hope, this time, that you'll allow me to sedate you," Sinister observed as he covered his arms in suds. "I'm sure you don't want to undergo the laser without pain management again."

"Who needs a laser?" asked Rogue. She stripped off her left glove, raised her palm to her face, and bit down on the fleshy part of the heel of her hand. Even her inveulnerable skin couldn't hold out for long against the superhuman strength in her jaw. Blood ran down her face and arm.

She spat the metallic saltiness out of her mouth and held out her bleeding hand. "That enough, or you need me to do another one?"

Sinister raised his eyebrows, suds dripping into the sink. "She's certainly your daughter, Mystique."

"I'm sure she would take exception to that statement," said Mystique blandly.

* * *

_Bonne chance: _Good luck.

_Mon frere: _My brother.


	17. Chapter 17

* * *

Chapter 17

* * *

"He's stoned. He's completely lost it. Give 'im a minute."

The voices seemed extremely far away. Remy's chest and throat burned with the need for air and water. The room was spinning.

_Baltimore. How'd he get to Baltimore? Did it matter?_

_It had been cold, but now it was warm. Summer-warm, and muggy. He was barely subsisting. A thief of his caliber should be pulling major jobs, living respectably off the proceeds, but he was picking pockets and swiping basic foodstuffs to survive. He didn't have the presence of mind for anything else. All his thoughts, all his awareness, all of it was back in New Orleans._

_Except for the part that kept thinking about that girl, and the look she'd given him as she walked away. _

_He lounged on the roof of the warehouse where he was staying and indulged the memory of her glares, her smiles, her long, thoughtful looks. There was no reason why he shouldn't. There was no one to care anymore whether he kept or broke his promises in the silence of his own mind._

_There was an airplane overhead, too low for a commercial flight. Probably a military plane. _

_Then something fell from it, too slow to be natural, drifting the thousands of feet to the ground. _

_He was off like a shot, weaving through the buildings and back alleys, tracking the falling thing as it drifted on the wind, until finally it came to rest on the pavement of an all-but-deserted street. Rogue was sprawled on her back, unconscious, unhurt, unwakeable. _

_Though she couldn't hear him, he spoke to her anyway. His voice sounded harsh and stiff—he hadn't spoken a word in days. "Hello, _chère._"_

"Wake up, _DB_. Come on. We're only gettin' started here."

He was awake. He was still in New Orleans. It was still this intolerable, interminable night.

* * *

Sinister was buried in his science project, rather too obviously enjoying himself with centrifuges and microscopes, leaving Mystique to guard the prisoner. Rogue was still sitting on the exam table, for lack of anywhere better to sit. No one had offered her anything with which to tie up her bleeding hand, so she was pressing it against her shirt.

Mystique was still watching her, her black-and-yellow eyes unwavering. Rogue forced herself not to fidget. "Ah don't like bein' stared at," she snapped, when she could take it no longer.

Mystique obediently dropped her eyes to the floor. "I know that. I've always tried to make sure you didn't notice."

"So you could stare at me without getting your head punched off? Stalker."

"Interest in the welfare of my daughter doesn't make me a stalker."

"The way you do it, it really does. And don't give me that crap about 'interest in my welfare.' This is just another job to you. Even if Ah _was_ your daughter, it wouldn't matter. Didn't stop you lettin' Magneto experiment on Kurt—"

"I had no choice; how dare you judge—"

"That's a load of crap. The Professor would never do that to us. Logan wouldn't. Storm wouldn't. They protect us. You just sell us off to the highest bidder 'cause our powers make us _valuable_!"

"Would the pair of you mind keeping your domestic disputes at a reasonable volume?" Sinister asked, sounding annoyed. "I need hardly remind you that time is of the essence."

Rogue reluctantly shut up. Freeing Gambit was more important than bawling out Mystique. Though she really wouldn't mind ripping into the shapeshifter. It would make her feel better.

After a long moment of silence, Mystique asked, "How is Kurt?"

Rogue turned away, preferring to watch Sinister rather than be forced to make eye contact with Mystique. "Not here, so good."

"It was only an innocent question, Rogue. I only want to know that he's all right."

"He's none'a your business. Kurt's mah brother, but that doesn't make you our mom."

"Don't it?"

The voice that spoke these words wasn't Mystique's. It was higher-pitched and gentler, with a broad, comforting southern drawl.

Rogue felt her whole body stiffen with fury, fixing her eyes straight ahead lest they glance back of their own accord. Through clenched teeth, she hissed, "In ten seconds, if you're still wearin' the face Ah think you're wearin' right now, it ain't gonna be attached to your head anymore."

"Don't tease the child, Mystique," Sinister ordered, straightening up from his instrument-laden table. "The serum is ready. It's a twenty CC injection, into the vein, not the muscle."

Mystique crossed the room and took the little bottle he offered her. "That'll be tricky. He'll fight me."

"The compound won't work unless it's injected directly into the bloodstream. You'll just have to get him to hold still."

Mystique turned to Rogue. "What can I tell him to make him trust me so I can administer the injection? It has to be something to prove I come from you. Something only you would know."

Rogue's first thought was the wink and the 'um' that was the standard password within the X-Men, but she dismissed it at once. She'd compromise the whole team if she told Mystique about that. It had to be something more secret, just between Gambit and her.

She held her chin up and glared at Mystique, defying her to abuse the confidence she was about to give. "Tell him—"

* * *

How long had he been here? Hours. Forever. Not dead yet. Not even close.

They were letting him rest. He hung in his chains, unable to support his weight on his endlessly shaking knees. His mouth was sticky from dehydration, but he couldn't breathe through his nose because it was blocked up with drying blood.

How long until morning? How long until they came back?

These people used to be his friends, his enemies, his rivals. They used to be people.

He wanted to go home.

The door eased open. Remy felt a fresh wave of stress chemicals go surging through his bloodstream. He wrenched his head up to see who had come in.

It was Chris Broussard.

Chris closed the door behind him, and quietly turned the bolt. He walked across the room, drawing something from his pocket. It was a syringe in a plastic sheath, still closed and sterile.

Chemical torture. Remy knew too much about chemical torture. There were drugs that tricked the nervous system into believing it was on fire, and drugs that disabled the higher muscle functions so you couldn't even flinch, much less fight back. Whatever was in that syringe, he wasn't going to like it.

Chris filled the needle from a little bottle, carefully measuring the dose and then holding the point upward to knock out any air bubbles. His movements were those of a professional, practiced and steady. Remy hadn't thought Chris to be far enough along in his apprenticeship to be handling drugs like that. Fast learner.

He put the bottle away, then approached Remy.

Remy squirmed away, as much as he could, and reached a hand for Chris's head. Chris dodged lightly away. "Hold still."

"Yeah," Remy croaked. "I'm really gonna do dat for ya."

Chris's eyes flashed—literally. Suddenly the brown irises were black, and the whites were yellow. In a deep, resonating, hissing voice, he ordered, "_Hold still._"

Remy was so startled that for a moment he did as he was told. "Mystique?"

The eyes were changed back in a second.

"What in—"

"No time," she snapped at him. "Rogue sent me."

"_Liar_."

"She says to fly away home."

_Fly away home._

Mystique could have tricked those words out of her . . . could have coerced or tortured her . . . no. No amount of trickery, coercion, or even torture would have made Rogue give up those words. She wouldn't betray him. Never. Somewhere, somehow, she was calling the shots. _That's my girl._

Remy nodded. "Do it."

Mystique found the vein in Remy's forearm, lined the needle up, and stabbed it through his skin. The drug felt cool as it rushed into his bloodstream. She drew the needle out, leaving the wound to drip itself closed.

"Not long now," she promised. In a few quick, long strides, she was out the door again.

_Not long now_. Maybe it was drain cleaner she'd popped him with. Or bleach. Or cyanide. If it spared him a few hours, he didn't mind.

Time to go.

* * *

"Did you make the storm?"

Rogue sat on the exam table, her feet hanging over the side, trying not to flinch at the disinfectant Sinister was using to treat her self-inflicted bite wound.

"I encouraged it and directed it."

"How?"

"With great difficulty. I injected myself with a serum made from a blood sample I collected many years ago, in Cairo. I'd been saving it for a special occasion. It was more powerful than I'd anticipated; it nearly killed me. But it created the confusion I needed to remove Bobby LeBeau and to attract the attention of the elusive Gambit. And now here we are."

_Storm._ How many more of her family did he have locked away in refrigerators? Logan? Mr. McCoy? The Professor? And now he had her, body and soul.

She didn't care. She didn't care, she didn't care, she didn't care. As long as Gambit could walk away from this hellish night, she didn't care. She forced herself to set her family aside and to think about Gambit.

"How long will it take for your stuff to work, once Mystique gives it to him?"

"It's quite slow-acting, but it should be at full strength about half an hour after it's injected." Sinister set the disinfectant on his equipment table and tore open a packet of sterile gauze. He pressed it against Rogue's hand and wrapped it in place with a rolled bandage. He spared a glance for her face. "I'm surprised at all the questions about his welfare, and none about yours. Aren't you the least bit curious about what's going to happen to you?"

Rogue shrugged. She was terrified about what was going to happen to her, but somehow it was easier to be terrified for herself than for Gambit. "Ah made my choice, so it don't much matter, does it?"

Sinister nodded his agreement. "Admirably pragmatic."

Rogue tested her bandaged hand, then allowed him to raise it over her head so the bleeding would slow. "Ah would _like_ to know," she finally admitted. "Just to pass the time until Mystique gits back. Ah mean, you got mah blood already, so what else could you want? Somethin' big, if you put all this together just to get me."

"Yes," Sinister agreed. "Something very big." He pulled a stethoscope out of the pocket of his lab coat and fitted the earpieces around his neck. "As agreed, we won't start anything too invasive before you have news that Gambit is safe, but would you mind if I just did some basic tests while we're waiting?"

"Sure," Rogue sighed. "Go for it."

"Thank you." He fitted the stethoscope to his ears and placed the listening piece against her chest. "Deep breath, please."

Rogue took a deep breath.

"That blood sample I took from you last autumn gave me the greatest surprise of my life. I wanted to see how quickly your absorption was deteriorating. All leeches lose their absorbed powers eventually, some in minutes, some in years. I had seen how effortlessly you flew, after all these months, and I was prepared to find that you could hold onto absorbed powers longer than any leech I'd ever tested. But when I compared the new sample to the older ones, I found almost the opposite. Your powers are growing, just like natural powers would."

"Wait a sec . . . what older samples? What older samples?"

"The ones Mystique took immediately before and immediately after you absorbed Carol Danvers."

_Carol Danvers._ The name echoed in her head, like a fragmented memory of a movie that had given her nightmares when she was little. She could feel the words _Carol Danvers_ pressing on the barriers that Professor Xavier had erected in her mind. She frantically hoped that they would hold.

"You mean when she kidnapped me last year? She did it for _you_?"

"Yes. Deep breath again, please, and hold it. I've been searching my entire career for some means to transfer powers permanently from one person to another. (Breathe out.) I devised a number of artificial methods, but all were temporary . . . and some of the earlier ones had some side effects." He gestured vaguely to his chalk-white face, inky black hair, and red eyes. A slightly bitter smile revealed a mouthful of pointed teeth.

"So Professor Xavier was right," Rogue breathed. "He said you couldn't be a real mutant, 'cause Cerebro couldn't pick you up."

"Merely a fervent admirer and long-time imitator. But with you to experiment on, I can create the means to become, as you say, a 'real mutant' . . . to have powers of my own, without the endless cycle of synthesizing and injecting I've been limited to thus far." He strapped a blood-pressure cuff around her uninjured arm, with the head of the stethoscope fitted underneath it. "I thought at first that you would be just another step along the path to that goal. That's why I had Mystique test you, by forcing you to absorb an alpha-level mutant to the full extent of your powers. Unfortunately, she chose a mutant whose powers made you impossible to control. There was a personal vendetta of some kind between the two of them, I understand. At any rate, you were gone. Mystique had told me nothing about where you lived or who your family was, and with her imprisoned by SHIELD I was forced to abandon my experiment. I can't tell you how disappointed I was."

He pumped up the blood pressure cuff. Rogue tried not to squirm: the inflated cuff always made her fidgety and mildly claustrophobic, worrying that it would just squeeze her arm off. But it deflated in its own appointed time, with Sinister counting off her pulse on his wristwatch.

"I turned to other projects, one of which put me in touch with the New Orleans Thieves Guild. Young master Henri Robert referred me to a 'friend' of his (I only discovered later that the pair considered themselves brothers, in affection if not in genetics), who in turn led me back to you. I was thrilled by my good fortune—the opportunity to finish an experiment I'd given up for lost." He unstrapped the cuff and let Rogue wiggle her arm until the circulation returned. "And then I ran comparison tests on the new blood samples I'd collected, and I knew I had to get you back. There's too much potential in you for me to give you up."

"Thanks, Ah think."

"You're welcome." A little beam of light glared into first one eye, then the other. "So it became a question of getting you out of your Institute. Since my first attempt to remove you from your stronghold proved so disappointing, I had to find a way to distance you from it. There was no one outside the Institute you cared about enough to come after, so I went one degree of separation further. I waited for an opportunity, then at the proper moment made Bobby LeBeau disappear. As I'd hoped, Gambit came after him, and you came after Gambit. After that, it was just a matter of separating Gambit from your little team to take him hostage. It was all working rather nicely until the Assassins stepped in. The best-laid plans of mice and men."

"Often go awry," Rogue finished.

"You know your Burns."

"Nah. We did _Grapes of Wrath_ in English this year, and talked a little bit about Steinbeck's other stuff." Rogue shrugged, feigning a disinterest she didn't feel. "Ah hated it. Was gonna write my final paper on _Their Eyes Were Watching God_, though, 'cuz Ah hated that more. Guess I'm not gonna now."

"Perhaps, in good time. You're a clever girl, and I hate to see that wasted. But we have work to do first. First I need to work on isolating the portion of your genetic code that controls your absorption, and synthesizing it. Then . . . oh, the possibilities are endless. Because you absorb powers perfectly, I can use you as a test subject for absolutely anything. It's going to save a lot of trouble. And I'd like to look into the physiological processes behind your absorption. That's going to be tricky. If I had a near blood relation, I'd like to see how your absorption would work on him or her, to determine what criteria exactly you use to determine an 'other' you can absorb. A clone might serve the same purpose. Or a fetus. There's a question: could you carry a child to term, or would your body just reject and absorb it? At what stage?"

Rogue snorted, though the movement of air stung the back of her dry throat. "You're skippin' a step there."

"Easily avoided. But that's a problem to be addressed later. At any rate, when I've reasonably satisfied my own curiosity, there's no reason why you shouldn't go back to school. Finish that paper. I'm sure your teacher won't mind if it's a few years late."

For some reason, that was what set Rogue off. The vision of herself, years older, perhaps with a dozen other stolen powers stored away inside her, her arms scarred from blood-drawing bites and lasers, the sanctity of her inviolable body destroyed by three or four artificial pregnancies, walking into Bayville High to turn in a paper that was years past its due date, cracked her composure. The muscles of her face tensed and crinkled in an effort to keep from crying, and her breath came in a constricted, trembling hiccough. She dug her fingers into the upholstery of the exam table and struggled to relax her chest and throat.

She could bust out of here any time she wanted. But Gambit was still in danger—one twitch from her, and Sinister would tell Mystique to call the rescue off. Even if he did get away safely, she'd given her word. A few years of her life for all of Gambit's. She'd made a deal.

Sinister left the room for a minute, then came back with a bottle of water. "There you go. It's still sealed; I haven't laced it with anything. Drink up."

Rogue twisted the cap off and had a few mouthfuls of water, which helped to steady her breathing. She wiped her eyes with the gauze on the back of her left hand.

"I'm not unsympathetic," Sinister offered. "Truly. What you are doing for your friend is extremely brave. You're to be commended. If my experiments go well, you'll be home in no time at all—perhaps even with a reward for your trouble. You're seventeen now, correct? I'm sure that, at your age, the limitations of your powers are beginning to distress you. If you're cooperative, and patient, I'll see what can be done about an inhibitor drug for you."

Rogue was in no shape to handle this proposition. She was numb. She had another sip of water.

"Finish the whole bottle, please. It's important that you stay hydrated. Mystique will be back soon. And the sooner we get started, the sooner we'll be done."

Rogue forced her head up and down in a mechanical nod. "Sounds great."

* * *

Remy suddenly realized that it was easier to breathe.

He'd had to struggle to his feet for every breath, even though his knees were long past the point of wanting to support his weight. Electric shock did that to you. But breathing while hanging from your arms was all but impossible, so up he'd struggled, breath after breath. Gasp in a lungful of air, sag back down into the chains, exhale, fight back up again. Over and over.

Marius, Bertrand, and a couple of others were back. This time they'd brought knives. Not just ordinary pocketknives like thieves carried: long, thin, razor-sharp daggers from some bygone era. These were the weapons from which the Assassins' Guild drew its ancient, official name: the Order of the Poniard. Personally, Remy had always preferred the less catchy but more practical 'Sovereign Guild of Allied Thieves.' Not as pretentious.

That was when he realized that he hadn't fought his way to his feet in over a minute, but he was still breathing. His arms didn't ache as badly as they had been.

He glanced down. His toes were no longer dragging on the floor. They were hanging in the air, resting comfortably on nothing at all.

There were two possible explanations. One, he was hallucinating. Two, he was flying.

He tried reaching down with his foot to touch the floor. It was still there, solid in a different way that he couldn't quite articulate. Not solid like the air was suddenly solid, all around him, ready to support him or to push him in any direction he chose. He could feel it, waiting for orders.

This wave of sensation was so interesting that it took a while to notice that Bertrand was staring at him. Well, not at him. At his hair.

He seized a fistful of it, just above Remy's forehead. "Somebody get chemicals on him or something?" he demanded, yanking the fistful so that Remy's head jerked up. It hardly hurt at all.

"What d'you mean?"

"A bunch of his hair's gone white. Look at dis."

_My hair's gone white. I'm not touching the ground. And I hardly even felt that pull. I sound just like . . . I sound just like Rogue, that's who I sound just like._

What_ did Mystique pop me with?_

He leaned his weight down and to the left, pulling against the chain on his right arm. The bolt holding the chain to the wall started to give, as though he were pulling it out of mud instead of an oak beam.

Remy started to laugh. He couldn't help it. He was hanging in chains in the middle of the Ripper stronghold, ready to die any second, and all of a sudden he was home free.

Marius hit him across the face with a bare hand. He soon realized that that had been a bad idea.

* * *


	18. Chapter 18

* * *

Chapter 18

* * *

As silently as a shadow, Mystique was back in the room, as though she'd never left.

"I gave him the injection," she announced. "It's done."

It was done. Remy was safe. Rogue felt a shuddering wave of relief run along her spine. It didn't matter what happened to her now. Remy could go home.

"Thank you," she told Mystique. For once in her life, she really meant it.

Mystique nodded and said nothing.

"Excellent," Sinister announced, rubbing his hands together. The latex gloves made them look almost the color of normal human flesh, but they were still unnaturally long, and looked predatory. "Then we can get to work. Rogue, when was the last time you had anything to eat?"

Rogue thought. "Ah had some dinner about . . . five thirty last night, maybe?"

Sinister checked his watch. "It's nearly six o'clock now. That's plenty of time. Good. I'd like to do some exploratory surgery, just to get an idea of what I'm dealing with, and take some tissue samples. It'll only take me a few minutes to prep the operating theater." He headed for the door.

"What if she runs?" Mystique asked.

"She won't." Sinister closed the door behind him.

Rogue felt a dead, bitter smile curve across her face. "He knows me better'n you do."

"Idiot child," Mystique snapped. "I gave you the power of a goddess, and still you lie down before him and let him do as he likes with you."

"If it bothers you so much, maybe you shouldn't've brought me here in the first place."

"I needed the money. I was never paid for kidnapping you. He considered your escape to be my fault, and refused to fulfill his end of the contract."

"Oh, well if you _really_ needed the money, then that makes everything just fine."

"Don't you understand? It doesn't matter where I take you. You can _fly_. No prison on earth can hold you captive now."

Rogue laughed, and the sound was so unnerving that Mystique fell back a half-step. "No prison but a promise."

She understood now why Gambit refused to make promises, even to her—they were dangerous things. She wondered if she'd ever have the chance to tell him. Where would he be when Sinister finally let her go? Would he try to find her? Would he wait? Part of her hoped not. She wouldn't wish that kind of misery on anyone. She'd bought him back his life; it was too expensive to be wasted that way. So maybe this was the best way for things to work out after all.

"Fly away, Rogue," said Mystique. The words were not quite a command and not quite a plea. "The deal is over. I've got what I needed. Just fly away."

"Shove it." Promise or no promise, Rogue might have stayed here just for the sheer, visceral pleasure of ticking Mystique off. It was deeply satisfying. "You don't love me. You don't care. You just want me to take off so you get to walk away with no consequences, _again_. Well, if you hear me scream in your nightmares from now on, then _good_. There'll be two of us. You get away from me. You never speak to me again. After what you've done to me, and to my family, Ah'd rather die a thousand deaths than be saved by you."

Mystique stood perfectly still for a very long moment, as she'd used to do when she was Principal Darkholme and she was a heartbeat away from ripping somebody's head off. Rogue had seen even the unmovable Blob retreat a step when assaulted with that deadly stillness. But Rogue was not Brotherhood anymore, and was not to be pushed around. She glared back, her head high, every inch an X-Man.

Remy had said there were two kinds of women who could keep a secret. Now Rogue knew for sure which kind she was.

Mystique broke first. She turned on her heel and stormed from the room, radiating fury too powerful to be expressed in shouting. Rogue sighed, and her ramrod-straight posture relaxed into an exhausted slouch. It seemed so long since she'd slept.

* * *

It was like waking up from a nightmare and realizing that everything is all right. Remy had been burdened down with exhaustion and pain, the limits of his strength, the restrictions of gravity. All that was gone. That which had seemed impossible was suddenly easy.

Marius lay at his feet, dazed from the unexpected absorption. His voice, cold and snide and vicious, bounced around in Remy's head and tried to force its way out of his mouth. Remy forced it to be quiet; he was too high on being Rogue right now to spare the time and attention to be somebody else.

He pulled away from the wall, and felt the bolts give way with a creak and crackle of splintering wood. The heavy chains dangled from his wrists and ankles, weapons waiting to be used. He swung his right arm, letting the chain send the Rippers scrambling to get out of his way.

There was a heavy bang that sent a percussion wave bouncing through the room, and the salty, bitter smell of gunpowder. Bertrand had a pistol. The first shot didn't come anywhere near Remy, but the second hit him in the shoulder. The bullet bounced off and clattered to the floor. There was no third shot, because by then Remy was hovering over Bertrand and crushing the weapon in the bare palm of one hand.

There was a faint tug at the skin of his chest; one of the electric nodes was still stuck to him. He reached to rip it off, but before he could, Jean Michel grabbed the controls of Marius's torture box and opened them up all the way. A hot, fierce shock shot through Remy's body, bringing him to the floor with a dense thud that rattled his brain inside his head. It hurt, but not enough to white out his consciousness. He dug his fingernails under the node and ripped it off, tossing it away from him where it crackled and spat bits of blue light. The second node followed it.

Remy struggled to his feet, gasping for breath. Before he could straighten up, Bertrand got one muscled arm around his neck and tried to dig the blade of his poniard between Remy's ribs. The knife almost tickled. Remy walked across the room with Bertrand still on his back, kicked open a hole in the wall, and tossed the Assassin head-first into the bayou.

He dodged before Chris could hit him from behind, stretching out one hand to brush Chris's head and neck. Abilities, personalities, and life-energy flowed into him, as though he'd taken hold of a live wire. He pulled back and let Chris collapse, struggling to contain everything he'd just absorbed. Rogue's power wasn't much more comfortable to use than it was to experience. One more personality would probably send him over the edge, and he didn't have the time to have a breakdown. He had no way of knowing how long the injection would last, or what would happen to any absorbed personalities once the drug's effects wore off.

He dodged past Marius, who was still struggling to get up, and flew out into the hallway with his chains dragging after him like Marley's Ghost. The staircase was crowded with Assassins, rushing upstairs to get him under control. Remy swung the chains like whips, the heavy metal links cutting through the crowd like machetes. Bullets whizzed past his ears and impacted against his head and chest, more annoying than painful. When enough people were cowering or collapsed that he could fly past without being touched, Remy shot down the stairs. One chain caught on the railing; Remy dug his fingers into the cuff and ripped it off. The other soon followed it.

The main floor was in chaos. Many of the lamps and candles that had been illuminating the house had knocked over, some trailing greasy black smoke, others blossoming into ravenous flames as they caught on curtains and sofas. People rushed around, some attacking him, others seeking weapons, still others scrambling for jackets and tablecloths with which to beat out the roaring flames.

In the midst of it all, Belladonna Boudreaux stood quietly, arms folded, head high, one perfect golden curl trailing over her shoulder, as though she'd known all along it was going to end like this.

Even though he knew he couldn't touch her, Remy reached out a hand, dropping down until his feet almost rested on the floor. "Come on, Belle. Come wid me. _Please_."

Bella shook her head. "Dis is my home."

Remy let his hand fall.

She unfolded her arms and pointed to the fireplace. "Get out if y'goin', an' don'forget your coat."

His duster hung over the mantle like a hunting trophy, pinned in place with another triangular-bladed poiniard. Remy flew up and freed it, his left hand grabbing automatically for the pockets where he kept his picks and his staff. Anything else that he owned, he could leave behind, but the staff was irreplaceable and the picks nearly so.

"G'bye," Bella called up to him.

Remy nodded in acknowledgment. He knew as well as she did that there had been no chance to say goodbyes last time. There was hardly any chance now, with the house seething and flames rising up everywhere, but somehow she'd managed it. "_Adieu,_" Remy called back. Then he shot straight up, through the ceiling, the second floor, the attic, and the roof, up, up into the cool gray darkness of very early morning. The sky to the east was pink and pale gold from the approaching sun.

The sky to the south was orange.

* * *

"Everything is ready," Sinister announced. "Come along, now."

Rogue hopped down off the exam table and followed him, head bowed. The thought of surgery was making her tremble with panic, but there was nothing else to be done but follow him. Being afraid wouldn't make any of this any easier.

He led her down the hall and into another room, this one dark but for one bright light above a bright white operating table. Next to it was the laser he'd used months ago to burn her arm open. Rogue touched the spot where the burn had been, thinking about Logan who'd healed it, imagining him appearing with claws extended to cut her out of this place. No Logan to rescue her today.

"Remove your clothes," Sinister ordered. Rogue felt the blood drain from her face. "Either you do it yourself, or I will do it for you once you are unconscious, and that would be a waste of time. Off with them, please."

Rogue cringed before the unwelcome touch of his impassive red eyes. Hesitantly, trying to keep her hands from shaking, she pulled off her right glove and tucked it into the pocket of her khakis, next to its mate. Then she crossed her arms in front of her and gripped the hem of her shirt, bracing to pull it off in one quick movement, like a band-aid.

That was when the oil rig exploded.

The floor gave a mind-numbing lurch and tilted about forty degrees, flinging Rogue, Sinister, and everything that wasn't bolted down towards the far wall. Rogue caught herself before she hit, and hung in the air with her shoeless foot curled up underneath her. Although she was no longer touching anything, she could still feel the second blast. It reverberated in the air like the clash of a cymbal, beating against her body in shuddering waves of energy.

The laser array had landed on top of Sinister. Rogue swooped down and lifted it up, tossing the massive piece of equipment aside like a stuffed animal. "What was that?"

"It sounded suspiciously like a problem," said Sinister, struggling to his feet with one hand braced against the tilted floor. "Give me your arm."

Rogue offered it, her bare hand curled as far away from him as she could make it go. He took hold of her forearm and pulled himself up towards the door. Just as he reached out to take hold of the door frame, a third explosion flung the rig back towards its proper orientation. Sinister was thrown out into the corridor, followed by a silver clatter of instruments and equipment, and the wall smacked Rogue in the face.

She shook off the blow and ducked out into the hallway, which was now more or less level again. The ceiling was covered in thick, stinging black smoke. Sinister had landed on his feet, and had a scalpel impaled in his arm. He brushed it off like a mosquito, leaving a cut through his clothes through which no blood seeped.

"I knew I shouldn't have paid you so soon," he observed calmly. "My mistake."

"Your last," answered Mystique.

Rogue couldn't see her through the smoke; her eyes were filling with tears in response to all the flying particles in the air. "_What_ did you _do_?" she demanded, wiping ineffectually at her eyes to clear away the blurred, stinging mess.

"Set the rig on fire," said Mystique's disembodied voice, cold and calm.

Sinister raised a hand. "Your last mistake as well, then. And so irrational, especially from a woman known throughout the world for her cold-blooded practicality. Why bother to betray me? Habit, was it?"

"Never ask why I do what I do. I belong to no one, least of all you, you pathetic, patched-together excuse for a member of my race."

Sinister's thin red lips turned down into a scowl. "No natural-born mutant could have a fraction of the power I wield."

"None except my daughter." Mystique appeared in the smoke, her posture straight and calm. With all the careful professionalism of long practice, she raised one long, straight arm, sighted along the barrel of the pistol she held, and shot Sinister in the head.

Sinister recoiled from the blow, but not enough to lose his balance. His hand came up again, and the smoke went twisting and writhing off into the darkness as waves of energy shot from his palm. Mystique disappeared into the dark as she tried to dodge, but Rogue heard a thud, then a moan.

Rogue turned to fly towards the noise, but before she could get her bearings a second pistol shot rang out. The bullet flew by Rogue's ear, trailing the salty, smoky scent of gunpowder, and struck Sinister in the stomach. He cried out and fired back, advancing into the smoke and darkness until it swirled together behind him. Rogue heard Mystique scream.

Then the rig blew in earnest. A wall of flame came sweeping up the corridor, bearing heat as solid as cement before it. The hot air threw Rogue straight up, through the ceiling and into the sky above them. The rig dissolved into a mess of flames, through which black shards of twisted metal crisscrossed like the shadows of a forgotten shipwreck.

She spun in the air, disoriented and scorched, slapping at spots where her clothes were burning and struggling to figure out where the horizon was. When everything stopped spinning, she dove for the rig again. She had no love for either Mystique or Sinister, but . . . but this couldn't be happening. Not like this.

The heat was too intense for her to come anywhere near the rig. She circled and dived a dozen times, trying to find somewhere the flames were more manageable. Spilled, burning oil spread out in a ring, keeping her from diving underneath.

What could Mystique have been thinking? Did she have a second plan, a way out? She obviously had her reasons for destroying Sinister and all his work, but . . . but here Rogue was, unhurt and free, watching the inferno devour everything that had threatened her. And there was no sign of Mystique anywhere.

_Did she love me, in the end? _She knew better than to ask—knew that Mystique loved no one but herself, and never would. But Rogue was alive and free . . .

She didn't understand. Maybe she never would. Everything and everyone that could have explained was inside that rig, that in a few more minutes would be at the bottom of the bay.

It was light out. Dawn was coming. Rogue pulled up away from the heat and into the sky, letting the cooler air run across her skin, under her hair and through her fingers. It felt like waking up from a fever.

"Rogue!"

She spun, her hair whipping around her face. Shooting at her across the pale, gray-gold sky was the one person in the world she most wanted to see. Gambit. Flying.

She swooped away to meet him, shouting like a lunatic. "Gambit! Gambit! You're okay . . . are you okay? Ah was so scared . . ."

"_Ça va,_" he assured her. He was wearing only his jeans and his coat, and the skin of his chest was crisscrossed with wounds. There were bruises on his face and blood in his hair, but his eyes were clear and focused, fixed ravenously on her as they met over the bay and hovered mere inches from one another. "I'm fine. An'you? De fireball . . ."

She shook her head. "Ah got out. But Mystique . . . she blew the rig."

Gambit shook his head. "Dat woman always was crazy. Whatever's happened, it was her choice. An' you got out okay."

"And you . . . gosh, you look _awful_ . . . but you're flyin'!"

He grinned. "Your powers is fun stuff."

Rogue made a noise that was part derisive snort, part relieved giggle, and part panicked sob.

"How long dis gonna last?"

She shook her head. "Ah dunno, but Ah don't think very long. You'd better get to the ground before yeh fall."

Gambit nodded, but didn't move. The early morning wind tossed the white streaks of his hair across his forehead. "So if I touch you now . . . what happens?"

"Ah . . . Ah dunno. Maybe nothin'. Maybe we'd both drop dead. There ain't no way to tell."

"One way," Gambit offered.

He kissed her.

* * *

The world exploded. Rogue could feel it dissolve into a million colors around her as Gambit's mouth pressed against hers, reckless and insistent and terrifying and wonderful. She was absorbing him; she could feel it. His strength, his pain, his wildness came pouring into her in one frantic rush, and any second now he was going to black out and plummet hundreds of feet to smash against the freezing water below them. But something inside her was pouring out through her mouth, cool and sweet, leaving her drained and dizzy in its absence. Gambit was absorbing her as well.

His hands came up to press against her face, stroking across her cheeks and combing through her hair, leaving fiery trails of sensation burning in her skin. She could taste his delight and his fear on her mouth. And something inside her rose up to meet him—a kind of crazy eagerness that echoed Gambit's but that did not belong to him. Hungrily, her fingers pressed into his face, desperate for _touch_ . . . the heat of him, the unfamiliar prickle of his day-old beard, every nuance of texture and temperature and warm human reality that infused every inch of his amazing, fascinating, addicting, wonderful skin.

She felt one of his hands drop to her waist, slipping under the hem of her shirt to explore the soft smoothness of her back, and she knew with bittersweet poignancy just how much he'd wanted to touch her like this, to delight and comfort and enjoy and understand her, how he'd had to bite his tongue every time she bent just so and formed that impossibly fascinating twist with her spine where he could just glimpse it between her jeans and her shirt. And she knew that he knew all about how his warm and wicked smile made her heart stutter with excitement, how fury and sadness and embarrassment swirled around inside her whenever she saw him flirt with Jean or smile at Wanda in passing at school, how every reunion with him, even after a few minutes of separation, was like a dozen happy endings all at once, how she'd learned tonight what jealousy meant, and sacrifice, and joy, all because of him. There were no more secrets between them: this depth of comprehension was something even the most powerful psychics and empaths could only dream of. As Rogue let her hands slide down to his neck, savoring the movement of his muscles as he pulled her closer against him, she knew with absolute, unshakable certainty that she was beautiful. She could feel it in his soul. Beside her dark, fierce, fascinating beauty, Jean faded into nothing and Wanda didn't even exist. Even Bella, beautiful Bella, was only a green-gray memory of sadness and shame. In the whole world, there was only Rogue, only Remy, only this one kiss.

She could taste herself in him now. He knew everything, and marveled at it: at how absolutely she trusted him, how frantically she needed him, how in a few short months he'd become her whole world. He'd broken promises, broken laws, grown up into everything she'd been taught to fear and despise, and still she couldn't stop loving him. She'd follow him anywhere if he asked. He knew what a horrible idea this was, falling for Rogue. It could only end in heartbreak and misery for them both. It was crazy, stupid, masochistic, cruel, but he couldn't help it now. After this kiss, there was no going back, no running away, no leaving her behind, ever. What they'd had once, they could have again, if he was clever enough and patient enough and crazy enough to obtain it. He was a thief: everything in the world was his for the taking, even this untouchable girl, though it could cost him the world to claim her. He loved her with an intensity that frightened him. There was no limit to what it might make him do. The day he'd woken up and rolled out of bed to get dressed for his wedding, to the woman he'd promised to never betray, he'd been thinking about Rogue and hating himself for it. He couldn't be trusted. His solemn and sacred word of honor meant nothing. But he couldn't make himself care anymore because Rogue loved him so completely. Nothing else in the world could possibly matter now.

They couldn't breathe. Though suffocation was preferable to being torn apart, the kiss broke of its own accord, and they gasped in one another's breath, their hands still hurrying to memorize every curve and plane and warm sweet secret.

_Not yet_, Rogue pleaded silently. This couldn't be over yet.

_Pas encore_, Remy echoed, their thoughts tangled up like their arms and their hair. And then they were kissing again, his mouth devouring hers and wandering down to taste the fascinating curve of her neck, her hands tangling in his hair as she struggled not to black out under the overwhelming wave of feelings. All of Remy's experience and eagerness wove into Rogue's innocence and wonder, making this kiss the first and the ultimate at the same time. Every taste and sensation was worth waiting ten lifetimes for. There was no telling which one of them was which anymore: their identities were lost in one another, and neither cared, nobody cared. They could stay lost forever and never look back. Their mouths found one another and refused to be separated.

The first rays of the rising sun glared against their closed eyes, and Remy began to fade and fall. Rogue could no longer taste herself in the energy she drew from him. There was just Gambit, growing dizzy and tired, slowly slipping out of her arms.

She let him slide, and took her hands away, and opened her eyes. They were Remy and Rogue again, two distinct people with a dozen barriers between them. But some of the barriers that had once been there would never be raised again.

Rogue dropped down, sinking with him, and slipped her head under his arm. "Hang on," she breathed, gently easing him down and north, back to solid ground where he would be safe.

When he set his bare feet on the damp, soft earth, he stepped back and looked at her for a long, long time.

"If you so much as _think_ 'second-best'," Rogue announced, amongst the dawn chattering of a hundred birds, "Ah'm gonna kill you."

He grinned. "Dyin' an' goin' t'heaven would be second-best t'dat."

Rogue smiled, suddenly and inexplicably embarrassed. "Ah . . ."

"I know."

When Logan and Jean found them an hour later, they were still there, standing and staring at one another in the first warm rays of the rising sun.

* * *


	19. Chapter 19

* * *

Chapter 19

* * *

Everything was confused and dark.

There had been water, crashing madly everywhere, black with fury. The wind lashed bits of gravel against his skin like bbs, leaving stinging red marks. He had to shield his eyes. There had been a boat . . . the client he'd been waiting for. But as he reached out to offer the packet of goods he'd stolen, something had grabbed his wrist and he was pulled down, endlessly and forever down into the blackness—

Things were calmer now. Everything was swaying. The blackness was becoming gray. As he tried to find the rhythm of the movement of the world, it settled into stillness, and there was light pressing through his eyelids. He dragged them open to a blur of soft colors.

Blink. Blink again. The edges of everything became a little clearer. A light fixture; a ceiling. He was lying on his back in a room painted pale mint-green, and a sharp, sweet _beep_ sounded over and over again.

He peeled his tongue off of the roof of his mouth and tried to speak, but the words were a mush of sound. It didn't matter, though.

There were footsteps. A girl with bright streaks of white hair hanging across her face bent over him and touched the soft cotton of her gloved fingertips against his forehead. "Bobby?"

Bobby. Yes. That was his name. Bobby LeBeau.

"You're awake!"

"Whehmah?"

"In the hospital. You're gonna be okay. Ah gotta go get Gambit; hang on!"

She darted away. Bobby struggled to make his thoughts fall into order, to figure out how he could be in a hospital with a girl he'd never met before who knew his name. Then the person she called Gambit entered the room, and it all fell into place.

Remy was grinning. His face was a mass of bruises and cuts, and he was wearing burgundy hospital scrubs he'd obviously conned some orderly out of, but he was still grinning that same old big, wicked, gleeful grin that had been his trademark since their childhood. "Hey, Bobby."

"Remy! _Sainte ciel_ . . ." Bobby struggled to reach for his brother, who was almost immediately at his bedside, enveloping him in a hug through which Bobby could feel him tremble just a little bit. "Remy . . ." he repeated, his voice muffled in the fabric of Remy's shirt. "I thought I'd never see you again."

"Dat makes two of us." Remy let go of him and tousled his hair. "You got any idea what trouble we gone through findin' you? My stupid big brother . . . ever'body's been half outta dey minds while you been havin' yourself a nap. _Memere_'s gonna eat you alive."

Bobby laughed, and choked. "What happened?"

"Don' ask. We found you, an' you safe. Da's all dat matters."

"We ain't still in N'Awlins? You gotta git out!"

"_Calme-toi._ We in Mizippi. You been in Intensive Care for more'n a week. Your client popped you one good. _Imbecile_, didn'you run a background check 'fore you took a job freelance? Stupid, stupid, stupid."

"_Eh, tais-toi alors_." Bobby wanted to take a swat at Remy, but all he managed was to rest his hand on his brother's shoulder. The two of them stared at one another and grinned and grinned.

* * *

Rogue stood in the doorway of Bobby's hospital room, smiling so widely she felt that the corners of her mouth had to be nearly to her ears. Remy and Bobby LeBeau, at long, long last. Bobby, that they'd hunted for and mourned for, was alive, all right, reunited with his twin. She saw the smile on Remy's face, and felt his happiness inside herself. He was still in there, like a star she'd swallowed that warmed her from the inside. She was happy for him, and with him, and from the thought that soon she'd see her brother, too.

She listened discreetly as they spoke to one another, sometimes in English, sometimes in French, with their hands on one another's shoulders. And though she was happy, her arms folded across her stomach in shyness and awkwardness. This moment was private.

She stepped back and tried to slip out the door without being noticed, but she didn't stand a chance against two of the best-trained and most talented young thieves in the world. The second she moved, their eyes were fixed on her.

"Bobby," said Remy, standing up and reaching out his hand to Rogue. "Dis is Rogue."

Rogue came forward and slipped her hand to his. The warmth of his palm, and the warmth of his smile, were just for her. He drew her to him and fitted her against his side, his hand resting on her upper arm. "She found you," Remy elaborated, speaking to Bobby but still looking at her. "She saved my life."

"_Elle est à toi?_" Bobby asked.

Remy nodded. "_Ouais._"

Bobby grinned at them both. "I'm so glad." He leaned back against his half-propped-up bed, his face white with exhaustion but serene with happiness. He reached out a shaky hand to her, and she took it, and gripped it. He squeezed faintly back, the friendly, welcoming grip of a brother. Then his hand went slack and slipped out of her grasp, landing with a bounce on the mattress beside him.

Remy let go of Rogue and was at his side in a second. "Bobby?"

"M'okay," Bobby breathed, his eyes half-closed. "Just so tired . . ."

"We should probably get a nurse or somebody," Rogue suggested. "He _did_ just wake up from a coma."

"You go to sleep, now, if y'need," Remy instructed. "We'll handle everything. You jus'rest."

Bobby shook his head, his breathing slow and shaky. "Gotta . . . call . . . _père_."

Remy and Rogue glanced at one another.

Remy shook his head, his hands held out in front of him. "I can't."

"Well, Bobby can't; he can't even pick up the phone!"

"Rogue . . ." Bobby breathed.

Remy picked up the handset of the phone that sat at the table beside Bobby's head. "I'll dial de number," he told her. "You gotta do de talkin'."

Rogue reluctantly let him place the phone in her hand. "What should I tell him?"

"Just that Bobby's okay, and that we'll call again to say where he is as soon as it's safe for him to move."

"Shouldn't I just tell him now?"

The look on Remy's face was all the answer she needed. Remy wanted a few more hours with his brother, before Jean-Luc came to take him back to New Orleans. She nodded, and held the phone to her ear.

Remy dialed the number.

It rang twice, each ring scaring her half to death as it sounded in her ear. Then there was a scuffle of noise as someone picked up. "LeBeau."

Rogue opened her mouth to speak, but her throat had gone dry.

"_Qui est?_" demanded Jean-Luc.

Remy took her hand again, and held it tight.

Rogue swallowed and forced her voice out of her throat. "_Monsieur_ LeBeau, it's Rogue. Ah dunno if you remember me . . . Ah'm a friend. A friend of your son, Remy."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Then Jean-Luc, his voice sharp and cold, announced, "I'm listenin'."

"It's about . . . about Bobby. He's here, he's all right. He's alive. Your son's alive, _Monsieur_ LeBeau. He's fine. He's been . . . sick, and he's very tired, but he's gonna be fine, and as soon as he is we'll have you come get him."

There was a soft rasp through the phone line, the sound of a breath finally let out after being held for minutes, hours, days. "Can I talk to him?"

Rogue put her hand over the mouthpiece. "He want tuh talk to you."

Bobby nodded. "Give it here."

"Yes," said Rogue into the phone. "He's right here; just a second."

"Wait!"

Rogue paused, the phone half an inch away from her ear.

"I'm gonna ask you a question," Jean-Luc informed her. "Just answer yes or no. Not a word more. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Is my son there with you? My son Remy?"

Rogue swallowed, her eyes flicking up to catch Gambit's. "Yes," she choked.

"Is he all right?"

"Yes."

"Okay." There was relief in his voice, and sadness, and calm. "Lemme talk to Bobby."

Rogue set the phone in Bobby's hand, and helped Remy arrange a pillow so that the exhausted young thief wouldn't have to hold it to his ear under his own feeble power. Then at last she withdrew from the room, leaving Bobby to talk to Jean-Luc with Remy sitting in silence to at least listen to a conversation in which he could not share.

* * *

Logan found Jean in the little sunken courtyard at the south side of the hospital. It was planted as a place for recovering patients to spend time out-of-doors while they healed. It was just a little place, a few square yards of lawn, some flowers, a couple of benches and a picnic table, but it was a welcome change from the endless pastel corridors and the omnipresent, nightmare smells of iodine and alcohol and bright blue hand soap. They'd both been spending a lot of time out here, waiting day after day for Bobby LeBeau to wake up.

"He's awake," Logan announced. Jean turned; she'd been leaning on the railing that ran around the edge of the courtyard. There was a breeze today, and she had to brush a few strands of long red hair out of her face.

"Rogue just came and told me," he elaborated, taking a place next to her with his elbows on the rail. "Awake and alive. Just tired. Some real sleep and he'll be ready to go home."

Jean smiled, her whole face suddenly alive with happiness. "Mission accomplished, then."

"Yeah," Logan agreed. "We did what we came to do."

"Is his father coming to get him?"

"When he's strong enough to move."

"And are we staying until then?"

"Gambit probably is. He'll want to be with his brother as long as he possibly can."

"I don't blame him. I wouldn't want to leave, either, if it were you just coming out of a coma."

Logan snorted.

"And Rogue will probably stay with him," Jean went on. "But she can give Gambit a ride home, so there's no reason why we shouldn't get the jet home as soon as that patch job is done. When I called home this morning, Scott said that Forge had already called three times. 'When can I work on the plane? When's the plane coming?'" She shook her head and laughed. "That kid and his machines."

"That's talkin' pretty big, calling Forge a kid when he's decades older than you are."

"He's still a kid. And _I _am an official, card-carrying grown-up."

"Uh-huh. Wasn't it about a week ago you were about four feet tall and reading _Babysitter's Cub_?"

"That was about ten years ago, Logan. Just because _you_ don't grow up doesn't mean the rest of us don't."

Logan leaned back on the rail and took a good, long look at her. She'd been taller than him for a couple of years now, only by an inch or so, but because he naturally crouched and she carried herself upright it looked like a bigger difference most of the time. She _wasn't _a little girl anymore. She wasn't even a teenager. She was a grown woman of twenty, confident and strong, with all the untainted joy of someone who has never had her heart broken. And though he'd lived through the same ten years she had, he was still Logan, of unknown origin and indeterminate age, a decade wiser and not a minute older. Another few heartbeats, and they'd be the same age. Then after that she'd be older than him, probably married to Scott with children of her own, who'd someday have children of their own, too. And he would still be Logan, ageless.

"No," he agreed. "It sure doesn't."

He was careful not to think. It was in quiet, open moments like this that Jean's telepathy was the most effective, and he couldn't risk letting her know the horrific realization that had just crossed his mind.

He loved her. Not as a little sister, or a daughter, or a colleague, or a friend, though all of that was tangled in there, too. She was a grown woman, and for that he loved her, and in his own ageless, timeless way he always would. His heart raced at the sight of her, the scent of her. She was too beautiful to bear. It was possibly the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

He took his tongue in his teeth and bit down until blood came to keep himself from doing something stupid, like seizing her by the shoulders and kissing her until she was so dizzy her knees buckled. He could feel his hands shaking with the desire to hold her. But he couldn't, _wouldn't_ touch her. It was way beyond 'inappropriate.' Jean was his _student_! He'd practically raised her! She was decades, maybe centuries, younger than he was, and happily involved with Scott, the field commander from whom Logan now took his orders. To say a word to her would to be to take away her innocent freedom and to cause division and grief in the team he'd devoted his life to protecting.

Part of him whispered urgently that it was worth the consequences, worth the risk.

"Can I go see him?" she asked, as casually as though the world hadn't just started spinning in the other direction. "Or is he sleeping?"

"Should still be awake," said Logan, and the steadiness of his own voice astonished him. "Rogue and Gambit were both still talking with him when I checked in."

"Okay. I'll just go quickly and say hi. Come with me?" She reached to take his hand, the battle-roughened hand that she'd taken a thousand times. Logan slipped it away before her skin could touch his.

"You go. I'm gonna go work on the plane, and tell the Professor the news."

"Okay. See you later, then."

"Yeah. Later."

* * *

Jean-Luc LeBeau stepped out of the taxi that had brought him from the airport to the hospital and glanced around. The street was quiet, with only a few pedestrians and a handful of cars moving in and out of the hospital parking lot. Despite the madness of trying to travel on Easter weekend, now that the sun had risen everyone was safe at home with their families. Which was where he needed to be, fast. The sooner he could bring Bobby home, the better it would be for everyone. Some of the Thieves wouldn't believe he was alive until they'd seen him with their own eyes.

His glance missed nothing. He searched the face of every pedestrian on the street, looking for a resemblance, a trace of familiarity. And then, a block away, he saw it.

His own son Remy stood leaning against the side of a building, the hem of his coat flapping languidly in the early morning breeze. His eyes were scarlet, and guarded. Next to him stood a redheaded goth girl with streaks of white in her hair, an olive-green army jacket hanging open over her chest. Remy had her gloved hand in his, their fingers laced together in mutual possessiveness and understanding.

For just a second, their eyes met, and they knew one another, Remy and Jean-Luc LeBeau. Then Remy turned away, and together he and the girl disappeared down another street.

* * *

"You all right?" Rogue asked, when the hospital was six blocks behind them.

Gambit nodded. "And you?"

"Yeah."

He glanced down at her, and her eyes were wise and sad, but her hand in his was warm with love and trust and life. He felt himself smile, happy to be with her, despite everything.

"Let's go home," he suggested.

Rogue smiled. "Ah was just thinkin' the same thing." She glanced down at herself and sighed. "Ah need a bath. And a haircut." She took one loose curl between her fingers and eyed it with distaste. "Kept meanin' to, but with everythin' that's been goin' on these last few weeks . . ."

Remy took the curl from her. "I like it long."

Rogue smiled at him, and the smile was sweet and shy, unlike her usual expressions but somehow more true. "Ah'll grow it out."

And Remy smiled, too—because they were so different, because they needed one another so ridiculously, because fate was so cruel, because her presence made him so happy. _Elle est à moi_. _Et je vais trouver comment la garder à moi. Rien va la prendre. Rien._

Together they ducked into the first alley they found. Rogue put her arm around his waist, and he slipped his over her shoulders, and the ground dropped away underneath them as they finally flew away northward, toward the Xavier Mansion, and home.

* * *

_Sainte ciel_: Holy heavens

_Calme-toi_: Calm yourself down.

_Imbecile_: Moron

_Eh, tais-toi alors_: Oh, just shut up.

_Elle est à toi?_ She is yours?

_Qui est ?_ Who is this ?

And the final declaration:

She's mine. And I'll find a way to keep her mine. Nothing will take her away from me. Nothing.

And here's one you all need to know: _Finis_. The end. At least for now. Once again, true believers, it has been an absolute blast sharing with you! Thanks for all your insightful feedback and wonderful encouragement—without it, this mess would have ended two stories ago.

I remain, as ever, yours very sincerely,

Seriana Ritani

(Seri to you guys.)


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